Mystery and Excellence
of the
Human Body
Acknowledgements
This book is the result of the cooperation of the following members of the research teams of the Sri Aurobindo International Institute of Educational Research, Auroville:
Alain Antoine, Alain Bernard, Arjun Puri, Aryamani, Ashatit, Christine Devin, Deepti Tiwari, Frederick, Patricia Greer, Jivatman, Jyoti Madhok, Pala, Sanjeev Aggarwal, Sharanam, Serge Brelin
General Editor: KIREET JOSHI
We are grateful to many individuals in and outside Auroville who, besides the above mentioned researchers and general editor, have introduced us to various essays which are included in full or in parts in this experimental compilation. We also thank photographers in and outside Auroville who have given us some of their works. We would like to mention in particular Olivier Barot, Francois Gautier, Pavitra and Frederic Soltan. Our gratitude also goes to Bob from the Sri Aurobindo Ashram Archives who gave us digitalised photos of Mother.
The Indian Council of Philosophical Research (ICPR) acknowledges with gratefulness the labor of research and editing of the team of researchers of the Sri Aurobindo International Institute of Educational Research, Auroville.
Printed in Auroville Press, 2003
An Exploration
Birth is the first spiritual mystery of the physical universe, death is the second which gives its double point of perplexity to the mystery of birth; for life, which would otherwise be a self-evident fact of existence, becomes itself a mystery by virtue of these two which seem to be its beginning and its end and yet in a thousand ways betray themselves as neither of these things, but rather intermediate stages in an occult processus of life.
— Sri Aurobindo
HOME
A question that has assumed in our times a great importance in pedagogy is: in what does our true fulfilment consist? And, in .that context, what is the nature and content of that knowledge which all human beings should pursue and possess?
It is, indeed, possible to ask whether the human search can ever truly be fulfilled and whether it is not wise to limit ourselves to some immediate utilitarian or pragmatic goals. As a matter of fact, a large number of pedagogical programmes have been designed in the context of what is pragmatically useful to individuals and to society. This pragmatic approach has its own justification; but it seems that the time has come when deeper questions must be raised and answered.
Considering that there is today an unprecedented explosion of information, one is obliged to ask how one can relate oneself to this explosion in such a way that one is not crushed under the increasing flow of information. On the one hand, there is a pressure towards specialization; on the other hand, a pressure towards inter-disciplinary and holistic knowledge. Knowing more and more about less and less bestows upon the individual a specialized capacity and proficiency but it also creates disabling inefficiencies in respect to larger questions where multi-sided knowledge is indispensable.
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There is more to perplex us. The specialized knowledge and efficiency that the individual possesses today tend to become obsolete at a rapid rate. There is, in consequence, an increasing pressure to continue learning all the time. This, however, leaves very little time to expand horizons of knowledge in fields other than that of narrow specialization. With the passage of time, our inefficiency in dealing with the general questions of life goes on increasing. At a certain stage, this situation, if not corrected, can really become alarming. Crises of various kinds are bound to multiply. This is what we witness today all over the world.
Still something further is there to disturb us in the very heart of our being: the increasing mechanization of life and the increasing tendency to impose mechanical solutions on human problems where they really do not work. Humanity is gradually moving in the direction of dehumanization. It seems as-though humanity is gradually sinking into a routine of life that prevents the pursuit of rationality, morality and spirituality. This routine of life is supported and imprisoned by structures or superstructures over which none has any control. This would not matter, to some extent, if human beings were ready to forget their higher dimensions of personality and bury their higher aspirations in exchange for certain pleasures and securities that can be provided by the mechanizing and dehumanizing society with its uncontrollable structures and superstructures. But human beings are complex; they have many parts to their being; they are, therefore, obliged to listen to the conflicting voices arising from their complexities and complications. They are bound to ask whether they are doomed to remain for ever in a state of inner conflicts or whether these conflicts can be resolved in some state of fulfilment. That an increasing number of human beings are consciously experiencing the pressure of inner conflicts is becoming more and more evident and we hear all around the mounting call of the crying soul of humanity.
It is against this background that deeper questions, both of life and education, have become extremely urgent and imperative. The question of human fulfilment, therefore, is becoming, increasingly relevant to post-modem enquiry. The idea that the human being is fundamentally a particle of dust destined to return to dust — this materialistic view of man — is being increasingly suspected to be a dogma under the pres sure of existential problems which we need to deal with and resolve. The idea that matter alone is real is being admittedly found to be
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untenable because it cannot be verified by any experience and because with the expanding spectrum of data, where supra-physical realities have begun to demonstrate their presence or imprint, a larger non materialistic formulation has become inevitable.
All this impels us to institute fresh enquiry and research.
We shall avoid all dogmatism in our inquiry. Just as we are not bound by the dogmatism of materialism, even so we shall not bind our selves to the dogmatic refusal of the reality and significance of Matter. In our explorations, we shall record the data of various domains of existence and evaluate them by appropriate methods. If this approach does not lead us to any definite conclusions, we shall not take recourse to any short-cut methods in order to balm ourselves with ill-gotten certainties. We shall prefer to remain in the state of uncertainty and continue to cultivate the attitudes appropriate to open-ended exploration.
We shall commence our journey with this indisputable fact of our experience that we find ourselves placed in the universe and that the most natural activity for us is to explore ourselves and the universe and the complexities of our relationship to the universe. The task of the educationist is to advise us as to how best we can arrive at the knowledge of ourselves and the universe and develop the capacities of relating ourselves to the universe so as to make that relationship as harmonious as possible.
We shall also bear in mind that our capacities for knowledge depend very much upon the quality of the consciousness with which we approach the activities of knowledge. The universe which looks so beautiful and wonderful to the consciousness of the poet is perceived to be oppressive and awful to an ordinary and weary consciousness. Objects which seem to be opaque and veiled to our superficial consciousness present themselves in their revelatory character to our deeper consciousness. We thus seem to be led to the wisdom of the ancients, who held that while there are several alternative ways of gaining knowledge, the most effective key to knowledge is the development of deeper and higher levels of consciousness. The ancient wisdom goes also further to affirm that there is a knowledge, knowing which every thing can be known, and that the door to that knowledge lies through inmost self-knowledge. This opens out before us a specific line of exploration, and we begin to ask questions as to what is our self and how we can attain self-knowledge.
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We note that everyone of us has some kind of self-experience and that much of the effectivity of our action depends upon certain states and qualities of self-experience. The quality of sincerity, for example, imparts to our state of being some kind of indefinable but intrinsically satisfying and effective self-experience.
Having reached this point of exploration, we are in a position to make one general proposition of fundamental value in pedagogy, which can be stated as follows: "One general aim of education should be to enable each individual to develop the states of higher and higher degrees of sincerity."
Numerous experiments have shown that wandering thoughts, a multiplicity of desires and the restlessness of impulses are the principal factors that prevent us from having genuine experiences of inner sincerity. One can verify this by simple experiments within oneself. It follows, therefore, that one has to find effective means and methods by which thoughts, desires and impulses can be controlled. In the course of the history of education, many such methods have been attempted and experimented upon. These experiments have revealed that nothing in the world is as difficult as to control oneself and ultimately to arrive at self-mastery and self-perfection. Many experiments have failed because self-control is sought to be achieved through the methods of unintelligent or forceful repression or suppression which tend to weak en or kill the fundamental life-force. It is seen that it is only when we give up repression or suppression and seek to transform life by methods of purification that this problem can be rightly resolved.
Continuing on this track of exploration, we enter into a vast domain of education that aims at self-knowledge by self-control through methods of purification.
At this stage, we begin to perceive that there are three aspects under which we try to know ourselves. The first aspect is that of our body; the second aspect is the complexity of our drives and urges for action, battle and victory — the complex that is covered under the term "vital being"; and the third aspect is what we call mind, our instrument of conception and ideation, of reflection and reasoning. But deeper psychological explorations indicate that behind what we experience as our physical being, vital being and mental being, there are, as the Upanishads point out, inner sheaths supported by a kind of self-consciousness which sustains and nourishes the inner physical being, the
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inner vital being and the inner mental being. The data of self-consciousness further reveal to us that there are deeper presences of self consciousness and deeper powers as also profounder states of intrinsic delight and sweetness which impart to us the experiences not only of the true source of our sincerity, but also of our self-possession and self identity. We also discover that the deeper states of the self transcend the ambiguous and narrow movements of egoistic consciousness. We then come to correct our mistaken idea that ego is the self and we are transported into experiences of what the Upanishads term antaratman (the inner psychic self) and jiva (the true individual). The Upanishads also tell us of those experiences of the jiva where all is in oneself and oneself is in all. There are still further heights and depths of self knowledge which open up for our exploration.
Based upon the above explorations, we have come to the conclusion that the most important programme of education that should be pro posed to everyone is that of self-knowledge and of self-control. At the same time, we have realized how difficult and complex this programme of education is.
In spite of the difficulty and complexity of the task, we have decided to undertake the study of all the aspects of education for self-knowledge in some detail at the present stage and in greater detail at a later stage.
As a first step, our research team has been concentrating upon the question of physical education as a part of the larger theme of self knowledge. There is, indeed, a vast literature on this subject, but the aim of our study had certain specific novelties in regard to approach and thrust. Firstly, we wanted to relate problems and programmes of physical education with deeper questions about the nature of the human body and how its potentialities can be developed through various methods of self-control and physical education, up to the levels of excellence. Secondly, our aim was exploratory and thus free from dogmatic views regarding the nature of the body and its relationship to deeper aspects of the human personality. Thirdly, we wanted to be as comprehensive as possible within our present limitations and thus to include in our studies not only the present systems of education but also ancient systems, not only Western systems but also some of the Eastern systems. In our search we collected a number of relevant books, magazines and articles; we also held several workshops, and interacted with
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a number of experts. As we went into deeper aspects of physical education, we felt the need of going still deeper, and, indeed, we felt that this domain will remain with us as a subject of unending exploration.
At the present stage of our research, we felt that it would be very useful to share some of our findings with others, and for that purpose, even to publish in book form a compilation of important materials. We were thus led to consider some guiding principles for selection and inclusion of materials in our compilation. After detailed discussions among ourselves on this subject, we decided that our book cannot and should not take the form of a text-book. We also decided that our book should not be pedantic, but it should centrally address itself to students and teachers as well as members of the general public who would be interested in getting initiated into some of the basic and more profound questions relating to the. human body and physical education in the context of the broader aim of self-knowledge. We, therefore, decided to touch upon a number of relevant topics but at an introductory level. We felt that our task ought to be to present to the reader those aspects and materials which might initiate him or her into a further task of personal exploration through other books and literature.
The selection of material for inclusion in the book has been made, in a certain sense, at random. Specialists and experts would have undoubtedly made a better selection. We, therefore, owe an apology to them for all the deficiencies that they find in our present effort. In our research team, we have no specialists; but all the members are deeply interested in promoting education of the physical being and we are all keen to study the role that the human body can play in the development of integral personality. Above all, we are all students of Evolution and are devoted to the study of the potentialities of the human body which are directly relevant to the mutation of the human species into the next species. This predilection of ours will be quite evident in the pages of this book.
We have noticed that stories, anecdotes, and autobiographical or biographical accounts induce among the readers great interest and, quite often, they easily become a source of inspiration. This is the reason why we have given a prominent place to personal accounts or biographical stories and similar other material. We also feel that any subject, when it is rightly studied, stimulates a sense of wonder and impulsion for new discoveries. We have, therefore, endeavoured to select
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passages from the writings of scholars, experts and others which take us to the realm of wonder and mystery. Another element that we have kept in view is to provide such information that would give the reader possibilities of comparing different points of view or varieties of experiences. Moreover, although this book is not a historical account of physical education or a study of the philosophy of the human body, we have tried to present ideas and views which might stimulate the reader to make a detailed historical and philosophical study of subjects presented in this book. We have also added notes, photographs, sketches, drawings, paintings and such other material which will facilitate and enrich the reader's study.
It may be in order to give brief indications about the underlying argument and contents of this book.
We may recall that we began with the question as to what is the nature and content of that knowledge which everyone should eventually possess. We are not yet in a position to give an exhaustive answer to this question, but we have tended to conclude that everyone should strive for self-knowledge and, since self-knowledge is dependent upon self-control, everyone should strive to learn and practise the science and art of self-control. Our argument is that everyone should strive for self-knowledge because everyone is and has basically the self. Again, everyone should strive for self-knowledge because self-knowledge, when it reaches high levels of maturity, becomes a sure means of a certain kind of other-knowledge and world-knowledge. An approach to the universe through the self has, it appears from various data, an advantage in the fact that the universe comes to be experientially possessed by the enlarged and unegoistic identity of the self with the universe. This does not mean that other approaches to the universe through sense-experience, scientific, philosophical or intellectual methods are not legitimate or relevant. Those approaches, too, have their own utility and value. Fundamentally, all knowledge, whether we pursue it through one approach or the other, tends to become one. This is brought out quite clearly by the proximity and even identity of some of the conclusions of the Upanishads, arrived at through intuitive methods of self-knowledge, and of modern science arrived at by methods of experimentation, intellectual ratiocination and empirical verification. In the ultimate analysis, one can adopt any approach that one may feel naturally suited to oneself. At the same time, one thing that stands out
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is that as far as self-knowledge is concerned, intuitive methods of self experience become ultimately indispensable.
We consider the knowledge of the human body to be an important aspect of self-knowledge, since everyone experiences one's body, rightly or mistakenly, as a part of oneself. Even when one comes to distinguish between one's inner self and one's body, this distinction is greatly facilitated and confirmed by the processes of deeper self knowledge, during the course of which one is required to admit that without a sound knowledge, control and purification of one's body, one cannot successfully arrive at deeper levels of self-knowledge. In any case, our conclusion is that since everyone of us possesses a human body, everyone of us should strive to have the basic knowledge of the human body and of the part it has to play in facilitating the acquisition of deeper realms of self-knowledge; we should also know the ways and means by which those deeper realms of knowledge can, in their turn, affect, influence, develop and perfect the functioning of the human body. Our research has shown that this is a very vast subject and pursuit of this subject has to be a programme of life-long education, Nonetheless, there are always initial points of preparation, and it would be advisable to have at least a good acquaintance with a sufficiently large number of such points. Among these, we identified and included the following in this book:
(1) At the very outset, one should have an understanding of the principles of the structure and function of the human body. It would be also useful to underline the fact that the human body is truly a wonder, a marvel, a miracle. It appears that the Vedic Rishis had rare insights into the marvels of the body which they had derived from their explorations of Matter and Spirit. We, therefore, thought it appropriate to present some of the hymns from the Veda. These hymns are difficult to under stand since they are couched in a language full of ancient symbolism; but they seem extremely meaningful when they are read in the light of a recent unusual book by Satprem under an unusual title: Evolution II. Next, we turn to Alexis Carrel's famous book, Man The Unknown, which contains extraordinary details about the human body, and we have selected a few passages which provide the reader with a lively picture of the wonder that is the human body. When we read these pas sages we begin to feel a sense of wonder at the secret intelligence that seems to be at work in organizing, with unimaginable perfection and
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utmost economy of means, a machine of amazing versatility, — a machine which is more than a machine.
(2) An important fact about the human body is that in spite of its versatility and incredible capacities, it is not self-sufficient, in the sense that it needs to be maintained by a good deal of external care, protection, nutrition and exercise. But these external aids are helpful only because the body has an innate power to act towards its own health and to generate processes of healing as soon as its health is adversely affected. Knowledge of the human body is, therefore, incomplete with out the knowledge of health, nutrition and healing. Part II and III of this book are devoted to some of the important and interesting aspects of these subjects. We have attempted to highlight only a few spots from its vast canvas.
We have asked the question as to what exactly is the connotation of the term "health", and in order to indicate some answers, we have presented a few passages describing the Ayurvedic concept of health and also some passages from a book by Larry Dossey, Space, Time and Medicine, which presents a refreshing concept of health in the light of modem knowledge.
(3) Next, we have briefly introduced the subject of Nutrition, by presenting a few extracts from a book by Rudolph Ballantine, entitled Diet and Nutrition: A Holistic Approach. This brief text explains the rationale of Ayurvedic nutrition. We have also presented an interesting account by Basil Shackleton given in his small book The Grape Cure where he describes his remarkable experiment to cure the multiple maladies of his body by eating only grapes for a few weeks. His success brings out the magic of grapes as nutrition and the power of food to cure. This is followed by several notes, including one on nutrition and the cell, which explains the concept of the cell and how its very structure and composition necessitates the intake of nutrition. It also under lines the intricate inner workings of the cell during the process of intake of nutrition and digestion. Another note, also extracted from R.Ballantine's book, explains the biochemistry of nutrition in an extremely lucid style and in five brief paragraphs.
(4) We have next touched upon the problem of healing by presenting a few insights from Indian wisdom and a few interesting passages from some modern writers. One of these passages is from Norman Cousins where he has given an account of his own illness and how he
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came to heal himself by extraordinary efforts, undertaken at his own initiative, which were aided by a wise doctor and his own will to live. The next set of extracts is taken from E.H. Shattock's book Mind Your Body where the author presents an interesting account of how he healed severe arthritis which had gripped his hips by a special method of visualization and concentration. This is followed by extracts from a book called Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome, the humour and wisdom of which will be more enjoyable by reading it directly without being .told what it is about. An extract from War and Peace, where Leo Tolstoy describes Natasha's illness, makes interesting reading not only by virtue of its literary elegance but also by the subtle message that it aims to convey about the natural capacity of the body to heal itself, irrespective or in spite of medicines. Finally, we have drawn attention to the phenomenon of pain in order to underline an aspect which is too often forgotten, namely, the great service it renders to the process of healing and conservation of the body by sending the essential signals which might alert the patient and stimulate him or her to take the necessary steps to diagnose and remedy the concerned disease.
(5) Part IV is devoted to the justification of physical education and how it is necessary to maintain health as also to develop strength, agility, grace and beauty in the body. That the human body is not only a remarkable organism but also possesses latent capacities which can be brought out by means of elementary and higher forms of physical education is the main thrust of this part of the book. It is argued that through physical education it can be demonstrated that the body is able to develop high qualities of excellence. A special emphasis has been laid on the Olympic Games of our times, since they have given a great impetus to physical education all over the world.
As the subject of physical education is very important, we have presented in the first place, two texts, dealing with physical education in ancient India and ancient Greece. Next is a text on the modem Olympic Games, where, in the notes, we have also provided a list of Olympics held in recent times and of the events in each discipline. We have also added a note on the Asian Games.
In order to probe into the present situation of physical education and sports in India, we have had an interview with Narottam Puri, who is famous in the world of sport as an eminent commentator on games and sports in India. We have reproduced this interview, which explains
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exactly where India stands in the world of sports and what India needs to do to improve its system of physical education and sports.
It is always refreshing to learn how qualities of excellence can be cultivated by reading accounts of individuals who have made great efforts in their lives. Keeping this in view, we have presented three stories in the field of running and sprinting, those of P.T. Usha, Emil Zatopek and Jesse Owens. In the field of body-building, we have selected a text from Arnold: The Education of a Body-Builder, where the famous' body-builder, Arnold Schwarzenneger tells his own story of how from a relatively weak body he built up an exceedingly strong one. We have also added a few notes to explain some of the technical words which are used in literature connected with body-building, including certain details about body-building and muscles. In the field of combatives, boxing is a familiar subject, although it is, to some extent, controversial. We have presented extracts from an autobiographical account by Muhammad Ali (alias Cassius Clay). Among games, cricket is one of the most favourite, and A.G. Gardiner's text on the Jam Sahib of Nawanagar seemed to us from many points of view a fine tribute to one of the most eminent figures in this field.
Dance is much more than physical education, and yet, physical education is indispensable to dance. Plasticity of the body coupled with grace and beauty are special qualities of dance. In order to illustrate the great qualities that a dancer needs to develop, we have presented extracts from the life of Anna Pavlova, written by Agnes de Mille in her book, Dance to the Piper. In the notes appended to these extracts, we have given information about the life and career of Pavlova and certain reflections on the programme of training that the classical ballet dancer is required to undergo. Another illustration that we have taken is from the life of Ram Gopal entitled Rhythms in the Heavens.
We also had an opportunity to discuss some of the important aspects of Indian dance with the famous dancer and dance-teacher, Sonal Mansingh. We have reproduced the conversation that we had with her.
Finally, we have presented extracts from a Japanese story written by Tetsuko Kuroyanagi on the subject of eurhythmics.
There are, indeed, a large number of games and sports and various forms of dance, Indian and Western. It is impossible to give an account of all the varieties; hence, we have been obliged to limit ourselves to only the few examples which are mentioned above. It may be argued
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that our selection should have been representative of a greater number of aspects of physical education and that we should have provided much richer material to illustrate the theme of the excellence of the human body. We admit the force of this argument, and we invite the readers to send us suggestions for suitable material which we can include in the second edition of this book.
(6) In Part V, which has been entitled "Profounder Aspects of Physical Education", we are presenting three passages from the writings of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother. As is well known, Sri Aurobindo and the Mother have given to the world a new vision of the synthesis of Spirit and Matter as also a programme of supramental action on the earth aiming at the total transformation of the body and the mutation of the human species, which will have revolutionary consequences for the upliftment and welfare of humanity. In their vision and work, physical education assumes unprecedented importance, and their writings on this subject provide rare insights and inspiring illumination. The theme of the mystery and excellence of the human body receives its central focus in these writings.
(7) In Part VI, we present extracts from John Gunther's book Roosevelt in Retrospect: A Profile in History, in order to illustrate how Roosevelt faced with rare courage the catastrophe that struck him in August 1921: a severe attack of poliomyelitis. Among the numerous stories of courage of the handicapped, that of Roosevelt is perhaps exceptionally inspiring, particularly when we realize that, undaunted by his crippling paralysis, he became President of the United States of America in 1933. Not only that, even while continuing his grim battle against the debilitating effects of his illness, he was re-elected President in 1936, 1940 and 1944. Roosevelt is one of the most outstanding examples of mastery over a severe handicap, a victory that led him to admirable achievements.
The story of Roosevelt is followed by a poem by Bill Martin Jr. and John Archambault which recounts the legend of a boy, born blind, who learns to surmount his handicap to the point, of riding fearlessly in a horse race.
(8) In Part VII, we have presented the theme of adventure in order to focus upon the extraordinary capacities of the human body which we see illustrated by achievements like those of Tenzing Norgay, Edmund Hillary, Reinold Messner and Steven Callahan. When life and death
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stand nearest to each other the human body seems to manifest some of its most hidden resources. This manifestation provides an insight into the possibilities of the greater perfectibility of the body and inspires us to look at the body as a carrier of a message of divine omnipotence.
(9) The message of divine omnipotence may appear to be nothing more than a momentary exaggeration under the impact of miraculous. achievements that great adventurers in various fields have registered in history. But when we begin to study some of the sciences and arts which have developed in the course of human culture which try to relate the body with the Spirit, we begin to feel that there may be a realistic basis in the view that the human body as constituted now is a pack et of energy behind which divine omnipotence really stands in a veiled condition and that, once the veil is removed by methods appropriate to physical education and spiritual education, that divine omnipotence can manifest in amazing manners and can even be established in varying degrees on a durable basis. We have made a study of this aspect of the human body and presented a few extracts in Part VIII under the general title "The Body Reaching Out Beyond Itself. Taking advantage of an account of Hatha Yoga, Hatha Yoga Pradipika, we have introduced the concept of Integral Yoga which includes not only the aims of physical perfection proposed by Hatha Yoga but also a synthesis of this perfection with other perfections which can be attained by pursuit of other systems of Yoga. This synthesis, — and this is our argument — provides a scientific basis for the possibilities of durable perfection of the body and even of the possibilities of development of a new kind of body, which can appropriately be termed "The Divine Body".
The extracts relating to Hatha Yoga are followed by some others from The Marathon Monks of Mount Hiei, which give insights into the extraordinary powers that manifest in the body when physical and spiritual exercises are combined.
We also find that in some martial arts, there are meaningful blendings of the physical and spiritual methods. Glimpses of these methods and astonishing achievements that result from them are brought out in the extracts from books called Martial Arts by Howard Reid and Michael Croucher and The Martial Arts by Michel Random. Because of the limits of space we have restricted our choice to Kalaripayit and Aikido.
Finally, we have presented extracts from a remarkable book:
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The Psychic Side of Sports written by Michael Murphy and Rhea A. White. The reader will find in these extracts fresh insights into the relationship between the body and the Spirit and how spiritual powers, when applied to the physical, can create new dimensions to the entire domain of physical education and sports.
(10) Part IX contains Sri Aurobindo's essay entitled "The Perfection of the Body" in which Sri Aurobindo perceives in the body the power to become an agent and a partner in the task of a total transformation of the mind, life and body so as to evolve the fullness of a divine life on earth. He envisages that a stage can be reached where a secure completeness and stability of the health and strength of the physical body could be maintained by the indwelling Spirit and that all the natural capacities of the physical frame, all powers of the physical conscious ness would reach their utmost extension and be there at command, sure of their flawless action. He concludes: "As an instrument the body would acquire a fullness of capacity, a totality of fitness for all uses which the inhabitant would demand of it far beyond anything now possible. Even it could become a revealing vessel of a supreme beauty and bliss, casting the beauty of the light of the spirit, suffusing and radiating from it as a lamp reflects and diffuses the luminosity of its indwelling flame, carrying in itself the beatitude of the spirit, its joy of the seeing mind, its joy of life and spiritual happiness, the joy of Matter released into a spiritual consciousness and thrilled with a constant ecstasy. This would be the total perfection of the spiritualised body".
The message of the perfection of the body can be looked upon as an open invitation to all those who aspire for the highest adventure. It is only by consenting to climb the peaks of this adventure that we can hope to verify for ourselves what exactly is the ultimate meaning of the mystery and excellence of the human body.
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Part I
The Mysteries of the Human Body
in the Mysterious Words
of the Vedic Wisdom
A mighty child
in the womb,
he is called the son of the body.
Rig-Veda ffl.29.2
***
He discovered the truth
the sun
dwelling in the darkness.
Rig-Veda, HI.39.5
The treasure of heaven hidden in the secret cavern
like the young of the bird,
within the infinite rock.
Rig-Veda, 1.130.3
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Follow the shining thread
spread out across
the mid-world
Rig-Veda, X.53.6
He has cloven
wide away the darkness,
even as the cleaver of beasts a skin,
that he may spread out our earth
under his illuminating sun.
Rig-Veda, V.85.1
What shall I do
with that by which
the nectar of immortality
is not obtained?
Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, IV.5.4
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Violent are they,
yet comrades of
a firm gleaming Strength.
Rig-Veda, V.52.2
O master of energy
they have called you
as giver and never resting from meditation.
Rig-Veda, IV.31.7
O Tree that keepest the delight,
start apart
like the womb of a mother
giving birth,
hear my cry and deliver me.
Rig-Veda, V.78.5
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Full of solid might
is their shining energy,
sharp is their outflashing light.
Rig-Veda, V.86.3
And thou hast opened
the very Rock to light
by the flashing strength
and thou hast found
the wideness.
Rig-Veda, V.30.4
He the handsome Messenger moves
between earth and heaven.
Rig-Veda, ffl.3.2
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He has entered
earth and heaven
as if they were one.
Rig-Veda, ffl.7.4
O fire, when thou art
Well borne by us
Thou becomest
The supreme growth
And expansion of our being.
Rig-Veda, II. 1.12
When fierce strengths
Our earth's pleasant growths
Start away from their roots,
Our earth herself
trembles and vibrates
and even her mountain.
Rig-Veda, V.60.2
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The horses that
the Breath of Life has yoked
Are yoked well.
Rig-Veda, V.31.10
In the streams
of its wide-flowing flood
they purify themselves
and garb themselves
with its densities,
and here
They break open the material hill.
Rig-Veda, V.52.S
Which of you has awakened
to the knowledge of this secret thing
that it is the child
Who gives birth to his own mothers.
Rig-Veda, 1.95.4
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It spreads and assails
the Black Dense.
Rig-Veda, 1.92.5
Storm about
with thy car full of the Waters,
let the high places
and the low be equalled
with each other.
Rig-Veda, V.83.7
I beheld afar
in a field
one shaping his weapons
who was golden-tusked and pure-bright of hue;
I give to him the immortal essence in several parts...
Rig-Veda, V.2.3
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Our fathers broke open the firm and strong places
by their words, yea,
the Angirasas broke open the hill
by their cry;
they made in us the path
to the great heaven;
they found the Day and Swar and vision
and the luminous Cows.
Rig-Veda, 1,71.2
They who entered
into all things that bear right fruit
formed a path towards immortality;
earth stood wide for them
by the greatness of the Great Ones;
the mother Aditi with her sons
came for the upholding.
Rig-Veda, 1.72.9
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The young gymnast, a girl, is on the balance beam. What would be for most a precarious pose does not seem to be at all such for her. After a short moment of concentration, she flips backward once, twice, and again, and again till she reaches the exact end of the beam.
A few years ago, the maximum was three backward flips on the balance beam. Now it is four.... What will it be tomorrow ? And this is only one of the numerous exercises where top gymnasts of the world show amazing qualities of suppleness, strength, agility, precision and often ethereal and effortless grace.
We know that to reach effortlessness at the crucial moment requires a lot of effort in many ways. Besides the relentless training, the conscious care of the body must be intense. Probably very few are more disciplined than modern athletes. They must be careful about their diet, their rest, their emotional relations and many other aspects of their lives as all these factors may powerfully affect their performances. The results are admirable. They are supremely fit and their bodies are superb instruments to reach higher and higher goals.
When looking at these top gymnasts' performances, we hardly think of what goes on beneath the surface of their bodies. We see strong and shapely muscles playing under the skin, but muscle play is in a way the simplest external manifestation of an enormous activity which involves the totality of the body -— inside out — with great rushes of blood and
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air. There are also many minute chemical exchanges, each of which might be crucial to peak performance and survival. Probably, the most amazing thing is that, in peak effort, despite all the jerks, shocks, jumps, dizzy turns and volts sustained, the orderly activity inside their bodies goes on to keep various organs within the limits of their proper functioning. It is indeed a kind of miracle that the body is performing when it manages to maintain an inner stability in the most trying circumstances.
Indeed, all bodies are marvels of complex, intricate functioning. The main actors are billions of cells of different types, all interrelated. Each cell is a remarkably complex unit performing multiple functions. Each cell also contains the full set of instructions to build the totality of the body. The amazing coordination of all the thousands functions that are going on at every second to sustain life appears effortless in healthy bodies.
There was a time when comparing human bodies to marvellous machines was thought as a compliment. Today it is finally recognized that the most ingenious machines are clumsy fixtures compared to living organisms. The most elaborate of all living organisms is surely the human body, in which spirit and matter are so delicately and intricately put together to produce this strange being called "human". In the modern age, following Descartes and Newton, the human body was seen as a machine in a universe where everything was moving according to definite and intangible laws. The body was made of parts and each part had its own law of functioning. A disorder in any part of the body had its own specific problem and remedy. It might be the liver or the heart or anything else which should be then specifically treated. The body was not seen as the totality that it is, a complex whole possessing great powers of self-healing if given a fair chance to do so. Even now, most medical practices in modern medicine continue to treat the body as a machine by dint of which hospitals are often like "body processors " functioning in a mechanical way.
However crucial shifts of perception are happening: the mechanistic view is giving way to a new vision of the body as an organic whole. The reasons for the wear and tear of the human body are being researched at a deeper level, where the body-mind connection is being addressed. In this approach, a so-called physical symptom may be the external manifestation of a less material problem of relation to one's own self as well as to others. Many experiences have shown that when the self-healing powers of the body are liberated, remarkable recoveries happen which
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are found baffling by holders of the orthodox medical view.
One of the pioneers of this new way of looking at the human body was Alexis Carrel. A well known French scientist, he wrote a now classical book Man the Unknown which truly heralded in its time, shortly after the first world war, a fresh approach to the mysteries of the human body. After more than fifty years, it is remarkable to find that such was the insight, one may even say the poetic inspiration behind the book that it is hardly obsolete in its description 'of the body. Here and there, scientists of today would go further, add newly discovered details, but they might not however be able to write such an inspiring text which stands today as a classic.
In his own preface to Man the Unknown, 'Alexis Carrel begins with a personal statement about his endeavour:
The author of this book is not a philosopher. He is only a man of science. He spends a large part of his time in a laboratory studying living matter. And another part in the world, watching human beings and trying to understand them. He does not pretend to deal with things that lie outside the field of scientific observation.
In this book he has endeavoured to describe the known, and to separate it clearly from the plausible. Also to recognize the existence of the unknown and the unknowable. He has considered man as the sum of the observations and experiences of all times and of all countries. But what he describes he has either seen with his own eyes or learned directly from those with whom he. associates. It is his good fortune to be in a position to study, without making any effort or deserving any credit, the phenomena of life in their bewildering complexity. He has observed practically every form of human activity.
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He is acquainted with the poor and the rich, the sound and the diseased, the learned and the ignorant, the weak-minded, the insane, the shrewd, the criminal, etc. He knows farmers, proletarians, clerks, shopkeepers, financiers, manufacturers, politicians, statesmen, soldiers, professors, school teachers, clergymen, peasants, bourgeois, and aristocrats. The circumstances of his life have led him across the path of philosophers, artists, poets, and scientists. And also of geniuses, heroes, and saints. At the same time, he had studied the hidden mechanisms which, in the depth of the tissues and in the immensity of the brain, are the substratum of organic and mental phenomena.
When we were looking for the best writing to describe the mystery of the human body, we came across Alexis Carrel's book and it touched us deeply. We felt it read like a profound meditation on the human body. We hope that the few excerpts we have selected will bring to our readers the same delight of wonder that we felt.
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(Extracts)
The human body is placed, on the scale of magnitudes, halfway between the atom and the star. According to the size of the objects selected for comparison, it appears either large or small. Its length is equivalent to that of two hundred thousand tissue cells, or of two millions of ordinary microbes, or of two billions of albumin molecules, placed end to end. Man is gigantic in comparison with an electron, an atom, a molecule, or a microbe. But, when compared with a mountain, or with the earth, he is tiny. More than four thousand individuals would have to stand one upon the other in order to equal the height Of Mount Everest. A terrestrial meridian is approximately equivalent to twenty millions of them placed end to end. Light, as is well known, travels about one hundred and fifty million times the length of our body in one second. The interstellar distances are such that they have to be measured in light years.1 Our stature, in relation to such a system of reference, becomes inconceivably small.... In reality, our spatial greatness or smallness is without importance. For what is specific of man has no physical dimensions. The meaning of our presence in this world assuredly does not depend upon our size...
Each man is characterized by his figure, his way of carrying him self, the aspect of his face. Our outward form expresses the qualities, the powers, of our body and our mind. In a given race, it varies according to the mode of life of the individuals. The man of the Renaissance, whose life was a constant fight, who was exposed continuously to dangers and to inclemencies, who was capable of as great an enthusiasm for the discoveries of Galileo as for the masterpieces of Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo, did not resemble modem man who lives in a steam-heated apartment, an air conditioned office, a closed car, who contemplates absurd films, listens to his radio, and plays golf and bridge. Each epoch puts its seal on human beings.... Our form is moulded by our physiological habits, and even by our usual thoughts.
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Its characteristics are partly due to the muscles running under the skin or along the bones. The size of these muscles depends on the exercise to which they are submitted. The beauty of the body comes from the harmonious development of the muscles and the skeleton. It reached the height of perfection at the epoch of Pericles, in the Greek athletes whom Phidias and his disciples immortalized in their statues. The shape of the face, the mouth, the cheeks, the eyelids, and the lines of the visage are determined by the habitual condition of the flat muscles, which move in the adipose tissue underlying the skin. And the states of these muscles depends on that of our mind. Indeed, each individual can give his face the expression that he chooses. But he does not keep such a mask permanently. Unwittingly, our visage progressively models itself upon our states of consciousness. With the advance of age it becomes more and more pregnant with the feelings, the appetites, and the aspirations of the whole being. The beauty of youth comes from the natural harmony of the lineaments of the human face. That, so rare, of an old man, from his soul.
The visage expresses still deeper things than the hidden activities of consciousness. In this open book one can read not only the vices,
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the virtues, the intelligence, the stupidity, the feelings, the most carefully concealed habits, of an individual, but also the constitution of his body, and his tendencies to organic and mental diseases. In fact, the aspect of bones, muscles, fat, skin, and hair depends on the nutrition of tissues. And the nutrition of tissues is regulated by the composition of blood plasma, that is, by the activity of the glandular and digestive systems. The state of the organs is revealed by the aspect of the body. The surface of the skin reflects the functional conditions of the endocrine glands, the stomach, the intestines, and the nervous system. It points out the morbid tendencies of the individual. In fact, people who belong to different morphological classes2 — for instance, to the cerebral, digestive, muscular, or respiratory types — are not liable to the same organic or mental diseases. There are great functional disparities between tall and spare men, and broad and short ones.... In the diagnosis and prognosis of diseases, ancient physicians, quite rightly, attributed great importance to temperament, idiosyncrasies, and diatheses.3 Bach man bears on his face the description of his body and his soul.
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Adaptive functions are responsible for duration
There is a striking contrast between the durability of our body and the transitory character of its elements. Man is composed of a soft, alter able matter, susceptible of disintegrating in a few hours. However, he lasts longer than if made of steel. Not only does he last, but he ceaselessly overcomes the difficulties and dangers of the outside world. He accommodates himself, much better than the other animals do, to the changing conditions of his environment. He persists in living, despite physical, economic, and social upheavals. Such endurance is due to a very particular mode of activity of his tissues and humours. The body seems to mould itself on events. Instead of wearing out, it changes. Our organs always improvise means of meeting every new situation. And these means are such that they tend to give us a maximum duration. The physiological processes, which are the substratum4 of inner time, always incline in the direction leading to the longest survival of the individual. This strange function, this watchful automatism, makes possible human existence with its specific characters. It is called adaptation.
All physiological activities are endowed with the property of being adaptive. Adaptation, therefore, assumes innumerable forms. However, its aspects may be grouped into two categories, intraorganic and extra organic. Intraorganic adaptation is responsible for the constancy of the organic medium and of the relations of tissues and humours. It deter mines the correlation of the organs. It brings about the automatic repair of tissues and the cure of diseases. Extraorganic adaptation adjusts the individual to the physical, psychological, and economic world. It allows him to survive in spite of the unfavourable conditions of his environment. Under these two aspects, the adaptive functions are at work during each instant of our whole life. They are the indispensable basis of our duration.
Intraorganic adaptation. Automatic regulation of the volume and composition of blood and humours.
Whatever our sufferings, our joys, and the agitation of the world may be, our organs do not modify their inward rhythm to any great extent. The chemical exchanges of the cells and the humours continue imperturbably. The blood pulsates in the arteries and flows at an almost constant speed in the innumerable capillaries of the tissues. There is an
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impressive difference between the regularity of the phenomena taking place within our body and the extreme variability of our environment. Our organic states are very steady. But this stability is not equivalent to a condition of rest, or equilibrium. It is due, on the contrary, to the unceasing activity of the entire organism. To maintain the constancy of the blood's composition and the regularity of its circulation, an immense number of physiological processes are required. The tranquillity of the tissues is assured by the converging effort's of all the functional systems. And the more irregular and violent our life, the greater are these efforts. For the brutality of our relations with the cosmic world must never trouble the peace of the cells and humours of our inner world.
The blood is not subjected to large variations of pressure and volume. However, it receives and loses a great deal of water in an irregular manner. After each meal, it takes in the fluids absorbed by the intestinal mucosa from the food and the digestive juices. At other moments its volume tends to decrease. In the course of digestion, it loses several litres of water, which are used by the stomach, intestines, liver, and pancreas for manufacturing their secretions. An analogous phenomenon occurs during violent muscular exercise, a boxing-match for example, if the perspiration glands work actively. Blood also diminishes in volume in the course of certain diseases, such as dysentery or cholera, when a great deal of liquid passes from the capillary vessels into the lumen5 of the intestine. The administration of a purgative is followed by a similar waste of water. The gains and losses are exactly counter balanced by mechanisms regulating the blood volume.
These mechanisms extend over the whole body. They maintain constant both the pressure and the volume of the blood. The pressure does not depend on the absolute amount of the blood, but on the relation of this amount to the capacity of the circulatory apparatus. This apparatus, however, is not comparable to a system of pipes fed by a pump. It has no analogy with the machines constructed by man. Arteries and veins automatically modify their calibre. They contract or dilate under the influence of the nerves of their muscular envelope. In addition, the walls of the capillaries are permeable. The water of the blood is thus free to enter or to leave the circulatory apparatus. It also escapes from the body through the kidneys, the pores of the skin, the intestinal mucosa, and evaporates in the lungs. The heart realizes the miracle of
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maintaining constant the pressure of the blood in a system of vessels whose capacity and permeability ceaselessly vary. When blood tends to accumulate in too large a quantity in the right heart, a reflex, starting from the right auricle,6 increases the rate of cardiac pulsations, and blood escapes more rapidly from the heart into the vessels. Moreover, serum7 traverses the wall of the capillaries and inundates connective tissue and muscles. In this manner, the circulatory system automatically ejects all excess of fluid. If, on the contrary, the volume and the pres sure ,of the blood diminish, the change is recorded by nerve endings hidden in the wall of the sinus of the carotid artery.8 This reflex deter mines a contraction of the vessels and a reduction in the capacity of the circulatory apparatus. At the same time, the fluids of the tissues and those contained in the stomach pass into the vascular system by filtering through the wall of the capillaries. Such are the mechanisms responsible for the nearly perfect constancy of the amount and the tension of the blood.
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Organic correlations. Teleological aspect of the phenomenon. Adaptation to future events. Adaptation to haemorrhage. Correlation of the structures of the eye
The organs are correlated by the organic fluids and the nervous system. Each element of the body adjusts itself to the others, and the others to it. This mode of adaptation is essentially Ideological9. If we attribute to. tissues an intelligence of the same kind as ours, as mechanists and vitalists do, the physiological processes appear to associate together in view of the end to be attained. The existence of finality within the organism is undeniable. Each part seems to know the present and future needs of the whole, and acts accordingly. The significance of time and space is not the same for our tissues as for our mind. The body perceives the remote as well as the near, the future as well as the present. When pregnancy, is nearly completed, the tissues of the vulva and vagina are invaded by fluids. They become soft and extensible. Such a change in their consistency renders the passage of the foetus possible a few days later. At the same time, the mammary glands multiply their cells. Before confinement, they begin to function. They are ready and waiting to feed the child. All these processes are obviously a preparation for a future event.
When one half of the thyroid gland is removed, the remaining half increases in volume. Generally, it even increases more than is necessary. The organism is abundantly provided with factors of safety. In the same way, the extirpation10 of a kidney is followed by the enlargement of the other one, although the secretion of urine is amply assured by a single normal kidney. If at any time the organism calls upon the thyroid or the kidney for an exceptional effort, these organs will be capable of satisfying the unforeseen demand. During the entire history of the embryo the tissues seem to prepare for the future. Organic correlations take place as easily between different periods of time as between different regions of space. These facts are a primary datum of observation. But they cannot be interpreted with the help of our naive mechanistic and vitalistic concepts. The teleological correlation of organic processes is evident in the regeneration of blood after a haemorrhage. First, all the vessels contract. The relative volume of the remaining blood automatically increases. Thus, arterial pressure is sufficiently restored for blood circulation to continue. The fluids of the tissues and the muscles pass through the wall of the capillary vessels and invade the circulatory system. The patient feels
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intense thirst. The blood immediately absorbs the fluids that enter the stomach and re-establishes its normal volume. The reserves of red cells escape from the organs where they were stored. Finally, the bone marrow begins manufacturing red corpuscles, which will complete the regeneration of the blood. In sum, all parts of the body contribute a concatenation11 of physiological, physicochemical, and structural phenomena. These phenomena constitute the adaptation of the whole to haemorrhage.
The component parts of an organ, of the eye, for example, appear to associate for a definite, although future, purpose. The skin covering the young retina becomes transparent and metamorphoses12 into cornea and lens. This transformation is considered as due to substances set free by the cerebral part of the eye, the optic vesicle. But the solution of the problem is not given by this explanation. How does it happen that the optic vesicle secretes a substance endowed with the property of rendering the skin translucid?
By what means does the future retina induce the skin to manufacture a lens capable of projecting upon its nerve endings the image of the outer world? In front of the lens, the iris shapes itself into a diaphragm. This diaphragm dilates or contracts according to the intensity of the light. At the same time, the sensitivity of the retina increases or decreases. In addition, the form of the lens
automatically adjusts itself to near or distant vision. These correlations are obvious facts. But, as yet, they cannot be explained. Possibly they are not what they seem to be. The phenomena may be fundamentally simple. We may miss their oneness. In fact, we divide a whole into parts. And we are astonished that the parts, thus separated, exactly fit each other when they are put together again by our mind. We probably give to things an artificial individuality. Perhaps the frontiers of the organs and of the body are not where we believe them to be located....
Repair of tissues
When skin, muscles, blood vessels, or bones are injured by a blow, a flame, or a projectile, the organism immediately adapts itself to such a new situation. Everything happens as if a series of measures, some immediate, some delayed, were taken by the body in order to repair the
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lesions13 of the tissues. As in blood regeneration, heterogeneous and converging mechanisms come into play. They all turn toward the end to he attained, the reconstruction of the destroyed structures. An artery is cut. Blood gushes in abundance. Arterial pressure is lowered. The patient has a syncope.14 The haemorrhage decreases. A clot forms in the wound. Fibrin15 occludes the opening of the vessel. Then the haemorrhage definitely stops. During the following days, leucocytes16 and tissue cells invade the clot of fibrin and progressively regenerate the wall of the artery. Likewise, the organism may heal a small wound of the intestines by its own means. The wounded loop first becomes immobile. It is temporarily paralyzed, and fecal matter is thus prevented from running into the abdomen. At the same time, some other intestinal loop, or the surface of the omentum,17 approaches the wound, and, owing to a known property of peritoneum, adheres to it. Within four or five hours the opening is occluded. Even if the surgeon's needle has drawn the edges of the wound together, healing is due to spontaneous adhesion of the peritoneal surfaces.
When a limb is broken by a blow, the sharp ends of the fractured bones tear muscles and blood vessels. They are soon surrounded by a bloody clot of fibrin, and by osseous18 and muscular debris. Then, circulation becomes more active. The limb swells. The nutritive sub stances necessary for the regeneration of the tissues are brought into the wounded area by the blood. At the seat of the fracture and around it, all structural and functional processes are directed toward repair. Tissues become what they have to be in order to accomplish the common task. For example, a shred of muscle close to the focus of fracture metamorphoses into cartilage. Cartilage, as is well known, is the forerunner of bone in the soft mass temporarily uniting the broken ends. Later, cartilage transforms into osseous tissue. The skeleton is thus regenerated by a substance of exactly the same nature as its own. During the few weeks necessary for the completion of repair, an immense number of chemical, nervous, circulatory, and structural phenomena take place. They are all concatenated. The blood flowing from the vessels at the time of the accident, and the juices from the bone marrow and lacerated muscles, set in motion the physiological processes of regeneration. Each phenomenon results from the preceding one. To the physicochemical conditions and to the chemical composition of the fluids set free in the tissues must be attributed the actualization
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within the cells of certain potential properties. And these potential properties give to anatomical structures the power to regenerate. Each tissue is capable of responding, at any moment of the unpredictable future, to all physicochemical or chemical changes of the intraorganic medium in a manner consistent with the interests of the whole body.
...If one of the regenerating mechanisms fails, it is replaced by the other. The result alone is invariable. And not the procedure. After a haemorrhage, arterial pressure and blood volume are re-established by two converging mechanisms. On one side, by contraction of the blood vessels and by diminution of their capacity. On the other side, by the bringing of a quantity of liquid from the tissues and the digestive apparatus. But each of these mechanisms is capable of compensating the failure of the other....
Extraorganic adaptation. Adaptation to physical environment
Extraorganic adaptation consists in the adjustment of the inner state of the body to the variations of the environment. This adjustment is brought about by the mechanisms responsible for stabilizing physiological and mental activities, and for giving the body its unity. To each change of the surroundings the adaptive functions furnish an appropriate reply. Man can, therefore, stand the modifications of the outside world. The atmosphere is always either warmer or colder than the skin. Nevertheless, the temperature of the humours bathing the tissues, and of the blood circulating in the vessels, remains unchanged. Such a phenomenon depends on the continuous work of the entire organism. Our temperature has a tendency to rise with that of the atmosphere, or when our chemical exchanges become more active, as, for instance, in fever. Pulmonary circulation and respiratory movements then accelerate. A larger quantity of water is evaporated from the pulmonary alveoli.19 Consequently, the temperature of the blood in the lungs is lowered. At the same time, the subcutaneous20 vessels dilate and the skin becomes red. The blood rushes to the surface of the body and cools by contact with atmospheric air. If the air is too warm, the skin becomes covered by thin streams of perspiration produced by the sweat glands. This perspiration, in evaporating, brings about a fall in the temperature. The central nervous system and the sympathetic nerves come into play. They increase the rapidity of cardiac pulsations, dilate blood vessels, bring on the sensation of thirst, etc. On the contrary, when the outer
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temperature falls, the vessels of the skin contract, and the skin itself becomes white. The blood circulates sluggishly in the capillaries. It takes refuge in the inner organs, whose circulation and chemical exchanges are accelerated. Thus, we fight external cold, as we fight heat, by nervous, circulatory, and nutritive changes of our whole body. All the organs, as well as the skin, are maintained in constant activity by exposure to heat, cold, wind, sun, and rain. When we spend our life sheltered from the inclemencies of the weather, the processes regulating the temperature of the blood, its volume, its alkalinity, etc., are rendered useless.
The outer and inner surfaces of the body
The skin, which covers the outer surface of the body, is impermeable to water and to gases. It does not allow the microbes living on its surface to enter the organism. It is capable of destroying them with the aid of substances secreted by its glands. But it can be crossed by the minute and deadly beings, which we call viruses. Its external face is exposed to light, wind, humidity, dryness, heat, and cold. Its internal face is in contact with an aquatic world, warm and deprived of light, where cells live like marine animals. Despite its thinness, the skin effectively protects the organic fluids against the unceasing variations of cosmic surroundings. It is moist, supple, extensible, elastic, durable. Its durability is due to its mode of constitution, to its several layers of cells, which slowly and endlessly multiply. These cells die while remaining united to one another like the slates of a roof-like slates ceaselessly blown away by the wind and continually replaced by new slates. The skin, nevertheless, retains its moistness and suppleness, because small glands secrete on its surface both water and fatty substances. At the nostrils, mouth, anus, urethra, and vagina, it joins the mucosas, those membranes that cover the inner surface of the body. All its orifices, with the exception of the nostrils, are closed by elastic and contractile rings, the sphincters. Thus, it is the almost perfectly fortified frontier of a closed world.
Through its outer surface,, the body enters into communication with all the things of the cosmic universe. In fact, the skin is the dwelling place of an immense quantity of small receptor organs, each of which registers, according to its own structure, the changes taking place in the environment. Tactile corpuscles scattered all over its surface are
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sensitive to pressure, to pain, to heat, or to cold. Those situated in the mucosa of the tongue are affected by certain qualities of food, and also by temperature. Air vibrations act on the extremely complex apparatus of the internal ear by the medium of the tympanic membrane and the bones of the middle ear. The network of olfactory nerves, which extends into the nasal mucous membrane, is sensitive to odors. A strange phenomenon occurs in the embryo. The brain causes a part of itself, the optic nerve and retina, to shoot out toward the surface of the body.' The part of the skin overlying the young retina undergoes an astonishing modification. It becomes transparent, forms the cornea and the crystalline lens, and unites with other tissues to build up the prodigious optical system which we call the eye. The brain is, thus, enabled to record the electromagnetic waves comprised between red and violet.
Innumerable nerve fibres radiate from all these organs and connect them with the spinal cord and the brain. Through the agency of these nerves the central nervous system spreads like a web over the entire surface of the body where it enters into contact with the outer world. The aspect of the universe depends on the constitution of the sense organs, and on their degree of sensitiveness....
We ignore things which have no action on the nerve endings of the surface of the skin. Therefore, we do not perceive cosmic rays, although they pass right through our body. It seems that everything reaching the brain has to enter the sensory organs — that is, to influence the nervous layer enveloping our body.... The skin and its appendages play the part of a faithful keeper of our organs and our blood. They allow certain things to enter our inner world and exclude others. They are the ever open, though carefully watched, door to our
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central nervous system. They must be looked upon as being an essential part of ourselves.
Our internal frontier begins at the mouth and the nose, and ends at the anus. Through these openings the outside world penetrates into the respiratory and digestive systems. While the skin is impervious to water and to gas, the mucous membranes of the lungs and of the intestines allow these substances to pass. They are responsible for the chemical continuity of our body with its surroundings. Our inner surface is far larger than that of the skin. The area covered by the flat cells of the pulmonary alveoli is immense. It is approximately equal to five hundred square meters. The thin membrane formed by these cells is traversed by oxygen from the air and by carbon dioxide from the venous blood. It is easily affected by poisonous gases and by bacteria, and more particularly by pneumococci. Atmospheric air, before reaching the pulmonary alveoli, passes through the nose, the pharynx, the larynx, the trachea, and the bronchi, where it is moistened and freed from dust and microbes....
From mouth to anus, the body is traversed by a stream of nutritive substances. The digestive membranes determine the nature of the chemical relations between the external world and the inner world of our tissues and organic fluids. But their functions are far more complex than those of the respiratory ones. They must profoundly transform the food stuffs which reach their surface. They are not only a filter, but also a chemical factory. The ferments secreted by their glands collaborate with those of the pancreas in decomposing the aliments into substances capable of being absorbed by the intestinal cells. The digestive surface is extraordinarily vast. The mucosas secrete and absorb large quantities of fluids. Their cells allow the foodstuffs, when digested, to enter the body.... The soundness of the respiratory and digestive membranes governs, in a large measure, the resistance of the organism to infectious diseases, its strength, its equilibrium, its effectivity, its intellectual attitude.
Thus, our body constitutes a closed universe,' limited on one side by the skin, and on the other by the mucosas covering our inner surfaces. If these membranes are impaired at any point, the existence of the individual is endangered. Even a superficial bum, when extending over a large area of the skin, results in death. This covering separates our organs and humours from the cosmic environment, and yet allows most
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extensive physical and chemical communications between these two worlds. It accomplishes the miracle of being a barrier at once closed and open....
The constitution of the body. Cells and their societies. Their structure. Cell types
The inside of our body does not resemble the descriptions of classical anatomy. This science has constructed a schema of the human being that is purely structural and quite unreal. It is not merely by opening a corpse that one may learn how man is constituted. Of course, we can observe in this way his framework, the skeleton and the muscles, which are the scaffold of the organs. In a cage formed by the spinal column, the ribs, and the sternum, are suspended the heart and the lungs. The liver, spleen, kidneys, stomach, intestines, and sexual glands are attached, by the folds of the peritoneum, to the inner surface of a large cavity whose bottom is formed by the pelvis, the sides by the abdominal muscles, and the roof by the diaphragm. The most fragile of all the organs, the brain and the cord, are enclosed in osseous boxes, the cranium and the spine. They are protected against the hardness of the walls of their lodgings by a system of membranes and a cushion of liquid.
One cannot understand the living being by studying a dead body. For the tissues of a corpse have been deprived of their circulating blood and of their functions. In reality, an organ separated from its nutritive medium no longer exists. In the living body, blood is present every where. It pulsates in the arteries, glides through the veins, fills the capillary vessels, bathes all tissues in transparent lymph....21
Within the body, the cells behave like small organisms plunged in an aerated and nutritive medium. This medium is analogous to sea water. However, it contains a smaller quantity of salts, and its composition is much richer and more varied. The leucocytes of the blood and the cells covering the walls of blood vessels and lymphatics are like fish swimming freely in the depth of the ocean or lying flat on the sandy bottom. But the cells forming the tissues do not float in a fluid. They are comparable, not to fish, but to amphibia inhabiting marshes or moist sand. All living cells depend absolutely on the medium in which they are immersed. They modify this medium unceasingly, and are modified by it. In fact, they are inseparable from it. As inseparable
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as their body is from its nucleus. Their structure and functions are entirely subordinated to the physical, physicochemical, and chemical conditions of the surrounding fluid. This fluid is the interstitial lymph which at once produces, and is produced by, blood plasma. Cells and medium, structure and function, cannot be separated from one another. The isolation of cells from their natural environment is altogether unwarranted. However, methodological necessity forces us to divide this ensemble into fragments, and to describe, on one side, the cells and tissues, and, on the other, the organic medium — that is, the blood and the humours.
Blood and organic medium
The organic medium is a part of the tissues. Should it be removed, the body would cease to exist. Every manifestation of the life of our organs and nervous centres, our thoughts, our affections, the cruelty, the ugliness, and the beauty of the universe, its very existence, depend on the physicochemical state of our humours. The organic medium is composed of blood, flowing in the vessels, and of fluids, plasma or lymph, which filter through the walls of the capillaries into the tissues. There is a general organic medium, the blood, and regional media, consisting of the interstitial22 lymph of each organ. An organ may be compared to a pond completely filled with aquatic plants and fed by a small brook. The almost stagnant water is polluted by waste products, dead fragments of plants, and chemical substances set free by them. The degree of stagnation and of pollution of the water depends on the rapidity and the volume of the brook. Such is the case with interstitial lymph. In short, the composition of the regional media inhabited by the various cells of the body rests, directly or indirectly, on blood.
The blood is a tissue, like all the other tissues. It is composed of about twenty-five or thirty thousand billions of red cells, and of fifty billions of white cells. But these cells are not, like those of the other tissues, immobilized in a framework. They are suspended in a viscous liquid, the plasma. Blood is a moving tissue/finding its way into all parts of the body. It carries to each cell the proper nourishment. Acting, at the same time, as a main sewer that takes away the waste products set free by living tissues. It also contains chemical substances and cells capable of repairing organs wherever necessary. These properties are indeed strange. When carrying out such astonishing duties, the blood
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stream behaves like a torrent which, with the help of the mud and the trees drifting in its stream, would set about repairing the houses situated on its banks.
Nutrition of tissues. Metabolism
Between the liquids composing the organic medium, and the world of tissues and organs, there are perpetual chemical exchanges. Nutritive activity is a mode of being of the cells, as fundamental as structure and form. As soon as their chemical exchanges, or metabolism, cease, the organs come into equilibrium with their medium and die. Nutrition is synonymous with existence. Living tissues crave oxygen and take it from blood. This means, in physicochemical terms, that they possess a high reducing potential, that a complex system of chemical substances and of ferments enables them to use atmospheric oxygen for energy producing reactions. From the oxygen, hydrogen, and carbon supplied by sugars and fats, living cells procure the mechanical energy necessary for the maintenance of their structure and for their movements, the electrical energy manifesting itself in every change of the organic conditions, and the heat indispensable to chemical reactions and physiological processes. They also find in blood plasma the nitrogen, sulphur, phosphorus, etc., which they utilize for the construction of new cells, and in the processes of growth and repair. With the help of their ferments they divide the proteins, sugars, and fats contained in their medium into smaller and smaller fragments, and make use of the energy so liberated. They simultaneously build up, by means of energy-absorbing reactions, certain compounds,, more complex and having a higher energy potential, and they incorporate them in their own substance.
The intensity of chemical exchanges in the cell communities, or in the entire being, expresses the intensity of organic life. Metabolism is measured by the quantity of oxygen absorbed and that of carbonic acid produced, when the body is in a state of complete repose. This is called basal metabolism. There is a great increase in the activity of the exchanges as soon as muscles contract and perform mechanical work. Metabolism is higher in a child than in an adult, in a mouse than in a dog. Any very large increase in the stature of human beings would probably be followed by a decline of basal metabolism. Brain, liver, and endocrine glands need a great deal of chemical energy. But muscular exercise raises the intensity of the exchanges in the most marked
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manner. Nevertheless, all our activities cannot be expressed in chemical terms. Intellectual work, strange to say, does not increase metabolism. It seems to require no energy, or to consume a quantity of it too small to be detected by our present techniques. It is, indeed, an astonishing fact that human thought, which has transformed the surface of the earth, destroyed and built nations, discovered new universes in the immensity of the sidereal23 spaces, is elaborated without demanding a measurable amount of energy. The mightiest effort of our intelligence has incomparably less effect on metabolism than the contraction of the biceps when this muscle lifts a weight of a few grams. The ambition of Caesar, the meditation of Newton, the inspiration of Beethoven, the passionate contemplation of Pasteur, did not modify the chemical exchanges of these great men as much as a few bacteria or a slight stimulation of the thyroid gland would easily have done....
Circulatory apparatus, lungs, and kidneys
In the course of the chemical exchanges, waste products, or catabolites are set free by tissues and organs. They tend to accumulate in the regional medium and to render it uninhabitable for the cells. The phenomenon of nutrition, therefore, requires the existence of apparatuses capable of assuring, through a rapid circulation of lymph and blood, the replacement of the nutritive substances used by the tissues, and the elimination of waste products. The volume of the circulating fluids, compared with that of the organs, is very small. The weight of blood of a human being is hardly equal to one-tenth of his total weight. However, living tissues consume large amounts of oxygen and glucose. They also liberate into the inner medium considerable quantities of carbonic, lactic, hydrochloric, phosphoric acids, etc. A fragment of living tissue, cultivated in a flask, must be given a volume of liquid equal to two thou sand times its own volume, in order not to be poisoned within a few days by its waste products. In addition, it requires a gaseous atmosphere at least ten times larger than its fluid medium. Consequently, a human body reduced to pulp and cultivated in vitro24 would demand about two hundred thousand litres of nutritive fluid. It is on account of the marvellous perfection of the apparatuses responsible for the circulation of the blood, its wealth of nutritive substances, and the constant elimination of the waste products, that our tissues can live in six or seven litres of fluid, instead of two hundred thousand.
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Blood maintains its composition constant by perpetually passing through apparatuses where it is purified and recuperates the nutritive sub stances removed by the tissues. When venous blood returns from the muscles and the organs, it is full of carbonic acid and waste products of nutrition. The pulsations of the heart then drive it into the immense net work of the lung capillaries, where each red corpuscle comes into con tact with atmospheric oxygen. This gas, in conformity with certain simple physicochemical laws, penetrates the blood and is taken up by the haemoglobin 'of the red cells. Carbon dioxide simultaneously escapes into the bronchi, whence it is expelled into the outside atmosphere by the respiratory movements. The more rapid the respiration, the more active are the chemical exchanges between air and blood. But during its passage through the lungs, blood gets rid of carbonic acid only. It still contains nonvolatile acids, and all other waste products of metabolism. Its purification is completed during its passage through the kidneys. The kidneys separate from the blood certain substances that are eliminated in the urine. They also regulate the quantity of salts indispensable to plasma in order that its osmotic25 tension may remain constant. The functioning of the kidneys and of the lungs is of a prodigious efficiency. It is the intense activity of these viscera that permits the fluid medium required by living tissues to be so limited, and the human body to possess such compactness and agility.
Physical relations of the body with its environment Voluntary nervous system. Skeletal and muscular systems
...Brain and spinal cord, with nerves and muscles, constitute an indivisible system. Muscles, from a functional point of view, are only a part of the brain. It is with their help and that of the bones that human intelligence has put its mark on the world. Man has been given power over his environment by the shape of his skeleton. The limbs consist of articulated levers, composed of three segments. The upper limb is mounted upon a mobile plate, the shoulder blade, while the osseous girdle, the pelvis, to which the lower limb is jointed, is almost rigid and immobile. The motive muscles lie along the bones. Near the extremity of the arm, these muscles resolve into tendons, which move the fingers and the hand itself. The hand is a masterpiece. Simultaneously, it feels and it acts. It acts as if endowed with sight. Owing to the unique properties of its skin, its tactile nerves, its muscles, and its bones, the hand is capable of manufacturing arms and tools.
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the sword of the medieval knight, the controls of the modern aviator, the artist's brush, the journalist's pen, the threads of the silk-weaver. It is able to kill and to bless, to steal and to give, to sow grain on the surface of the fields and to throw grenades in the trenches. The elasticity, strength, and adaptiveness of the lower limbs, whose pendulum-like oscillations determine walking and running, have never been equated by our machines, which only make use of the principle of the wheel. The three levers, articulated on the pelvis, adapt themselves with marvellous suppleness to all postures, efforts, and movements. They carry us on the polished floor of a ballroom and in the chaos of the ice-fields, upon the sidewalks of Park Avenue and on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains. They enable us to walk, to run, to fall, to climb, to swing, to wander all over the earth under all conditions.
There is another organic system composed of cerebral substance, nerves, muscles, and cartilages, which, to the same degree as the hand, has determined the superiority of man over all living beings. It consists of the tongue and the larynx, and their nervous apparatus. Owing to this system we are capable of expressing our thoughts, of communicating with our fellow men by means of sounds. Were it not for language, civilization would not exist. The use of speech, like that of the hand, has greatly aided the development of the brain. The cerebral parts of the hand, the tongue, and the larynx extend over a large area of the brain surface. At the same time that the nervous centres control writing, speaking, and the grasping and handling of objects, they are, in return, stimulated by these acts. Simultaneously, they are determining and
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determined. It seems that the work of the mind is helped by the rhythmic contractions of the muscles. Certain exercises appear to stimulate thought. For this reason, perhaps, Aristotle and his disciples were in the habit of walking while discussing the fundamental problems of philosophy and science. No part of the nervous centres seems to act separately. Viscera, muscles, spinal cord, cerebrum, are functionally one. Skeletal muscles, for their coordinated action, depend on brain and spinal cord, and also on many organs. They receive their orders from the central nervous system, and their energy from the heart, the lungs, the endocrine glands, and the blood. To carry out the directions of the brain, they demand the help of the whole body.
Complexity and simplicity of the body. Structural and functional limits of organs. Anatomical heterogeneity and physiological homogeneity
The body thus appears as an extremely complex thing, a stupendous association of different cell races, each race comprising billions of individuals. These individuals live immersed in humours made of chemical substances, which are manufactured by the organs, and of other sub stances derived from food. From one end of the body to the other, they communicate by chemical messengers — that is, by the agency of their secretions. Moreover, they are united by the nervous system. Their associations, as revealed by scientific techniques, are of an enormous complexity. Nevertheless, these immense crowds of individuals behave like a perfectly integrated being. Our acts are simple. For example, the act of accurately estimating a minute weight, or of selecting a given number of objects, without counting them and without making a mistake. However, such gestures appear to our mind to be composed of a multitude of elements. They require the harmonious functioning of muscular and tactile senses, of the retina, of the eye and hand muscles, of innumerable nervous and muscular cells. Their simplicity is probably real, their complexity, artificial — that is, created by our techniques of observation. No object seems to be simpler, more homogeneous, than the water of the ocean. But, if we could examine this water through a microscope having a magnifying power of about one million diameters, its simplicity would vanish. The clear drop would become a heterogeneous population of molecules of different dimensions and shapes, moving at various speeds in an inextricable chaos. Thus, the
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things of our world are simple or complex, according to the techniques that we select for studying them. In fact, functional simplicity always corresponds to a complex substratum. This is a primary datum of observation, which must be accepted just as it is.
Our tissues are of great structural heterogeneity. They are composed of many disparate elements. Liver, spleen, heart, kidneys are societies of specific cells. They are individuals definitely limited in space. For anatomists and surgeons, the organic heterogeneity of the body is unquestionable. Nevertheless, it may be more apparent than real. Functions are much less precisely located than organs. The skeleton, for example, is not merely the framework of the body. It also constitutes a part of the circulatory, respiratory, and nutritive systems, since, with the aid of the bone marrow, it manufactures leucocytes and red cells. The liver secretes, bile, destroys poisons and microbes, stores glycogen, regulates sugar metabolism in the entire organism, and produces heparin. In a like manner, the pancreas, the suprarenals, the spleen etc., do not confine themselves to one function. Each viscus possesses multiple activities and takes part in almost all the events of the body. Its structural frontiers are narrower than its functional ones. Its physiological individuality is far more comprehensive than its anatomical individuality. A cell community, by means of its manufactured products, penetrates all other communities. The vast cellular associations called viscera are placed, as we know, under the command of a single nervous centre. This centre sends its silent orders to every region of the organic world. In this way, heart, blood vessels, lungs, digestive apparatus, and endocrine glands become a functional whole in which all organic individualities blend.
Mode of organization of the body. Mechanical analogy. Antitheses and illusions
Indeed, both a machine and our body are organisms. But the organization of our body is not similar to that of the machine. A machine is composed of many parts, originally separate. Once these parts are put together, its manifoldness becomes unity. Like the human individual, it is assembled for a specific purpose. Like him, it is both simple and complex. But it is primarily complex and secondarily simple. On the contrary, man is primarily simple and secondarily complex. He originates from a single cell. This cell divides into two others, which divide
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in their turn, and such division continues indefinitely. In the course of this process of structural elaboration, the embryo retains the functional simplicity of the egg. The cells seem to remember their original unity, even when they have become the elements of an innumerable multitude. They know spontaneously the functions attributed to them in the organized whole. If we cultivate epithelial cells over a period of several months, quite apart from the animal to which they belong, they arrange themselves in a mosaic, exactly as if to protect a surface. Yet the surface. to be protected is lacking. Leucocytes, living in flasks, industriously devour microbes and red corpuscles, although there is no organ ism to be defended against the incursions of these enemies. The innate knowledge of the part they must play in the whole is a mode of being of all the elements of the body....
An organ builds itself by techniques very foreign to the human mind. It is not made of extraneous material, like a house. Neither is it a cellular construction, a mere assemblage of cells. It is, of course, com posed of cells, as a house is of bricks. But it is born from a cell, as if the house originated from one brick, a magic brick that would set about manufacturing other bricks. Those bricks, without waiting for the architect's drawings or the coming of the bricklayers, would assemble themselves and form the walls. They would also metamorphose into windowpanes, roofing-slates, coal for heating, and water for the kitchen and the bathroom. An organ develops by means such as those attributed to fairies in the tales told to children in bygone times. It is engendered by cells which, to all appearances, have a knowledge of the future edifice, and synthesize from substances contained in blood plasma the building material and-even the workers.
These methods used by the organism do not have the simplicity of ours. They appear strange to us. Our intelligence does not encounter itself in the intraorganic world. It is modelled on the simplicity of the cosmic universe, and not on the complexity of the inner mechanisms of living beings. For the moment, we cannot understand the mode of organization of our body and its nutritive, nervous, and mental activities. The laws of mechanics, physics, and chemistry are completely applicable to inert matter. Partly, to man. The illusions of the mechanicists of the nineteenth century, the childish physicochemical conceptions of the human beings, in which so many physiologists and physicians still believe, have to be definitely abandoned.... Our knowledge
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of the human body is, in truth, most rudimentary. It is impossible, for the present, to grasp its constitution. We must, then, be content with the scientific observation of our organic and mental activities. And, with out any other guide, march forward into the unknown.
Fragility and robustness of the body. Silence of the body during health
Our body is extremely robust. It adapts itself to all climates, arctic cold as well as tropical heat. It also resists starvation, weather inclemencies, fatigue, hardships, overwork. Man is the hardiest of all animals.... However, our organs are fragile. They are damaged by the slightest shock. They disintegrate as soon as blood circulation stops. Such contrast between the strength and the fragility of the organism is, like most of the antitheses encountered in biology, an illusion of our mind. We always unconsciously compare our body with a machine. The strength of a machine depends on the metal used in its construction, and on the perfection of the assembling of its parts. But that of man is due to other causes. His endurance comes more especially from the elasticity of his tissues, their tenacity, their property of growing instead of wearing out, from the strange power displayed by the organism in meeting a new situation by adaptive changes. Resistance to disease, work, and worries, capacity for effort, and nervous equilibrium are the signs of the superiority of a man....
The sound body lives in silence. We do not hear, we do not feel, its working. The rhythms of our existence are expressed by cenesthesic impressions which, like the soft whirring of a sixteen-cylinder motor, fill the depths of our consciousness when we are in silence and meditation. The harmony of organic functions gives a feeling of peace. When an organ begins to deteriorate, this peace may be disturbed. Pain is a signal of distress. Many people, although they are not ill, are not in good health. Perhaps the quality of some of their tissues is defective. The secretions of such gland, or such mucosa, may be insufficient or too abundant. The excitability of their nervous, system, exaggerated. Their organic functions, not exactly correlated in space or in time. Or their tissues, not as capable of resisting infections as they should be. Such individuals feel profoundly these organic deficiencies, which bring them much misery. The future discoverer of a method for inducing tissues and organs to develop harmoniously will be a greater
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benefactor of humanity than Pasteur himself. For he will present man with the most precious of all gifts, with an almost divine offering, the aptitude for happiness.
_______________________________
From Alexis Carrel, Man the Unknown,
Wilco Publishing House, Bombay, 1959
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Notes
Glossary
Light year — the distance which light travels in a year (about 6,000,000,000,000 miles) (six thousand millions miles)
Morphological class — a biological classification by form, especially outer form and inner structure of living organisms and their parts.
Diatheses — belonging or pertaining to an individual from birth; resulting from one's heredity or prenatal development.
Substratum — the substance in which qualities adhere; a basis, foundation, ground; an underlying layer.
Lumen — the cavity or channel within a tube or tubular organ.
Auricle — either of two chambers of the heart, placed above the two cavities called ventricles, and resembling in shape the external ear. It receives the blood from the veins, and communicates it to the ventricles.
Serum — the clear, yellowish fluid which separates from the clot when blood coagulates; the clear, fluid part of the blood, freed from its fibrin and corpuscles.
Sinus of the carotid artery — a dilatation of the proximal portion of the internal carotid or terminal portion of the common carotid artery, containing in its wall receptors which are stimulated by changes in blood pressure.
Teleological — relating to final causes; concerned with design or purpose in nature.
Extirpation — extermination; total destruction
Concatenation — a series of links united; a successive series or order of things or events regarded as causally or dependently related.
Metamorphoses — changes its shape, transforms; a metamorphosis is the marked change which some living beings undergo in the course of growth, (as caterpillar to butterfly, tadpole to frog).
Lesion — a hurt; a morbid change in the structure of body tissue caused by disease or injury, especially an injury or wound.
Syncope — a fainting fit caused by a sudden fall in blood pressure in the brain.
Fibrin — an elastic, thread-like, insoluble protein forming the network of the clot.
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Leucocytes — any of the small colourless cells of the blood, lymph and tissues, which move like amoebae and destroy organisms that cause disease; white blood corpuscle.
Omentum — a free fold of peritoneum (transparent serous membrane lining the abdominal cavity) connecting the stomach to the other visceral organs and supporting blood vessels, nerves and lymphatics.
Osseous — bony ; composed of, or like, bone.
Pulmonary alveoli — air cells of a lung.
Subcutaneous — under the skin
Lymph — a clear yellowish alkaline fluid found in the lymphatic vessels of the body; it resembles blood plasma but contains only colourless corpuscles.
Interstitial (lymph) — in anatomy, situated between the cellular components of an organ or structure.
Sidereal — of, like or relative to the stars.
In vitro (Latin) — in glass; in the test tube.
Osmotic — pertaining to the diffusion of fluids through a membrane or porous partition.
Alexis Carrel — A brief biography
Born in France in 1873, he became a surgeon and a biologist. In 1912, he received the Nobel Prize for Physiology and Medicine for his pioneering work in developing a method of suturing blood vessels. He spent most of his professional life in the USA (Rockefeller Institute for Medical Research), from 1904 to 1939, with the interruption of World War I. Among his main research lines was the preservation of tissues outside the body and the application of this process to surgery. (A strain of chicken heart tissue was kept alive for more than 30 years by the use of his techniques). He returned to France during
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World War I. He then developed, with a fellow researcher, the Carrel-Dakin method of treating wounds with antiseptic irrigations. His deep interest in human problems at all levels led him to become in 1941 director of the French Foundation for the Study of Human Problems. He died in Paris in 1944.
Besides Man the Unknown published in 1935 (the original text was written in French under the title L'homme, cet inconnu — Carrel did himself the translation-adaptation of his book in English), he wrote two other books: The Culture of Organs (with C.A. Lindbergh, 1938), and Reflections on Life (This posthumous book was published in 1952 by Mrs. Carrel who collected, under this title, many notes left by her husband).
The Body Speaks Out
There have been many written attempts at communicating the mystery, the complexity and the marvels of the human body. Perhaps one of the more original is the book published by the "Reader's Digest" under the title "I am John's Body" where various organs and components of the body are made to speak in turn about themselves and their functions. We give below very brief extracts from four chapters:
The cell
I am something like a big city. I have power stations, a transport system and a sophisticated communications set up. I import raw materials, manufacture goods, operate a waste-disposal system. I have an" efficient government — a rigid dictatorship, really — and I patrol my beats to keep out undesirables.
All this in something my size? It takes a microscope to even see me, and a super-microscope to peep inside my metropolis. I am a cell, one of the 60 billion in John's body. The cell is often called the basic element of life. Actually, we're life itself....
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There is no such thing as a "typical" cell. We are as different in form and function as a giraffe and a mouse. We come in all sizes, the largest of all being an ostrich egg. From there we scale down to a point where a million of us could sit comfortably on the head of a pin. And we come in a variety of shapes —discs; rods, spheres....
Perhaps the ultimate wonder among cells is the female egg, as in the body of John's mother. Once fertilized, this single cell divides into two cells, which in turn divide. Division continues until there are the two billion cells of a baby. Phenomenal as such multiplication is in itself, the truly striking thing is the enormous amount of information stored within the fertilized egg. That tiny fragment of life contains the blueprint for building that complex chemical plant, the liver. It stores coded information on hair colour, skin texture, body size. It knows just when to shut off growth of a little finger....
Perhaps the story of cells can best be summed up by saying that we are where it all takes place — everything from John's beginning to his end. How 60 billion of us can live in such harmony — each minding his own business, efficiently performing his own tasks — is something to contemplate. It is a wonder, perhaps the supreme wonder.
The moment of fertilization
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A red blood cell at the end of its life
The bloodstream
Think big when you think about me. I am a transport system with 75,000 miles of route — more than a worldwide airline. I am also a dustman and delivery boy with 60 billion customers.... My customers are the cells in John's body. I haul away their wastes and provide them with the essentials of life. I am John's bloodstream.
He thinks of me as a sluggish river, and is hardly aware of the frenzied activity under way within me at all times. In the second it takes him to blink, 1.2 million of my red cells reach the end of their 120-day lifespan and perish. In that same second, John's marrow, mostly in his ribs, skull and vertebrae, produces an equal number of new cells. In a lifetime these bones will manufacture about half a ton of red cells. During its short life, each red cell will
make something like 75,000 round trips from John's heart to other parts of his body.
To distribute oxygen and food to cells, I operate like a town water-supply system. The heart pumps, blood is pushed through arteries that grow ever smaller, and finally the flow gets to the capillaries. These gossamer cobwebs, linking arteries and veins, are where the action takes place.
Capillaries are so small that red blood cells must squeeze through in single file, occasionally even twisting themselves into odd shapes to make it. But in the second or so required for passage there is a whirlwind of activity. It's like
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unloading a delivery van, then reloading it with items no longer wanted. The big thing to be unloaded, of course, is oxygen, and carbon dioxide from cellular combustion is the main waste product reloaded in its place.
But the variety of other merchandise delivered to the tissues is amazing. The shopping lists of individual tissue and organ cells are by no means all the same. One cell wants a trace of cobalt; others call for minerals, vitamins, hormones, glucose, fats, amino acids, or a simple drink of water. If John is exercising, tissue requirements for just about everything increase enormously. His skin will flush — indicating that capillaries are operating at full capacity. When he sleeps, cellular food requirements become minimal, and over 90 per cent of his capillaries close down.
The liver
John worries about his teeth, hair, lungs, heart; he is hardly aware of my existence. I am John's liver. When he thinks of me at all, he has no trouble visualizing me. I look like what I am supposed to look like — liver. The largest organ in his body, I weigh three pounds. Protected by ribs, I pretty well fill the upper right part of John's abdomen.
Despite my unexceptional appearance, I am the virtuoso among his organs. In complexity I shame those headline grabbers, the heart and lungs. I do upwards of 500 jobs, and if I fall down on any of the major ones, John had better start making funeral arrangements. I participate in virtually everything that John does....
A chemical company would have to build an enormous factory to do my simpler jobs. The harder ones it couldn't do at all. I produce over 1,000 different enzymes to handle my chemical conversions. John cuts his finger and might well bleed to death but for the clotting factors that I manufacture. I make antibodies that protect him from disease. The protein fragments (amino acids) made in the intestine from that steak he loves so much could be as deadly as cyanide if they ever got into his bloodstream. I "humanize" them — change them from amino acid to human protein. And if there is any surplus that his body doesn't need, I change it into urea and pass it to the kidneys for excretion....
The brain
Compared to me, other wonders of the universe pale into insignificance. I am a three-pound mushroom of grey and white tissue of gelatinous consistency. No computer exists that can duplicate all my myriad functions. My component parts are staggering in number: some 30,000 million neurons and five to ten
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times that number of glial cells. And all this fitted into the crown of a size 7 hat. I am John's brain.
But I'm not just part of John, I am John — his personality, his reactions, his mental capacity. He thinks that he hears with his ears, tastes with his tongue, feels with his fingers. All these things happen inside me — ears, tongue and fingers merely gather information. I tell him when he is ill, when he is hungry; I govern his sex urge, his moods, every thing.
Even when he is asleep I continue to handle traffic that would swamp all the world's telephone exchanges. The amount of information flooding in on John from the outside is staggering. How can I cope with it all? I simply select what is important, and John ignores the rest..... I reside, of course, in a well-protected fortress. The skull is a quarter of an inch thick at the top, and even thicker at the base. I am bathed in a watery fluid that cushions me from shocks. A blood-brain barrier serves as gate-keeper, letting some things in, denying entrance to others. Thus, it welcomes the glucose I need, but blocks out bacteria and toxic substances....
A word about my architecture. Lift a piece of turf from a lawn and note the baffling intertwining of roots. I am something like that — multiplied by mil lions. Each of my 30,000 million nerve cells, or neurons, connects with others — some as many as 60,000 times.....
__________________________________________________
Extracts from / am John's Body, published by The Reader's Digest
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The Ways of the Body Remain Mysterious
More than sixty years after the publication of Alexis Carrel's book, the sense of wonder and mystery has not diminished. One might even say that it has increased. Today's knowledge about the human body is surely more precise in many ways than at the time when Alexis Carrel wrote. Yet this very precision makes most scientists only more aware than ever that we still know very little about the ways of the body, and today we know better than yesterday that we are very far from any comprehensive knowledge. Deepak Chopra, a leading American physician, originally from India, makes this point repeatedly in one of his latest books, under the title Quantum Healing. We present below a pas sage from a chapter of this book.
Counting the number of cells in the human body is no easier than counting the number of people in the world, but the accepted estimate is 50 trillion, or about 10,000 times the Earth's present population. Isolated and placed under a microscope, the various kinds of cells — heart, liver, brain, kidney, et cetera — look rather alike to the untrained eye. A cell is basically a bag, enclosed by an outer membrane, the cell wall, and filled with a mixture of water and swirling chemicals. At the centre of all but the red blood cells is a core, the nucleus, which safeguards the tightly twisted coils of DNA. If you hold a speck of liver tissue on your fingertip, it looks like calf's liver; you would be hard-pressed to discern that it is specifically human. Even a skilled geneticist would detect only a 2 percent difference between our DNA and a gorilla's. Of the liver cell's many functions, over five hundred at latest count, you would not have a clue simply by looking at it.
As clouded as the mind-body issue has become, one thing is indisputable: somehow human cells have evolved to a state of formidable intelligence. At any one time, the number of activities being coordinated in our bodies is quite literally infinite. Like the Earth's ecosystems, our physiology appears to operate in separate compartments that in fact are invisibly connected: we eat, breathe, talk, think, digest our food, fight off infections, purify our blood of toxins, renew our cells, discard wastes, and much more besides. Each of these activities weaves its way into the fabric of the whole. (Our ecology is more planet like than most people realize. Creatures roam our surface, as unmindful of our hugeness as we are of their minuteness. Colonies of mites, for example, spend their entire life cycle in our eyelashes.)
Within the body's vast array, the functions of any single cell — such as one of the 15 billion neurons in the brain — fill a good-sized medical text. The
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volumes devoted to any one system of the body, such as the immune system or the nervous system, take up several shelves in a medical library.
The healing mechanism resides somewhere in this overall complexity, but it is elusive. There is no one organ of healing. How does the body know what to do when it is damaged, then? Medicine has no simple answer. Any one of the processes involved in healing a superficial cut — the clotting of the blood, for example — is incredibly complex, so much so that if the mechanism fails, as it does with haemophiliacs, advanced scientific medicine is at a loss to duplicate the impaired function. A doctor can prescribe drugs that replace the missing clotting factor in the blood, but these are temporary, artificial, and have numerous undesirable side effects. The body's perfect timing will be absent, as well as the superb coordination of a dozen related processes. By comparison, a man-made drug is a stranger in a land where everyone else is blood kin. It can never share the knowledge that everyone else was born with....
We have all been informed, doctors and public alike, about the body's wondrous intricacy. Yet we persist in thinking of the body in an obsolete mould, as basically matter, but with a smart technician inside who moves the matter around. This technician was once called a soul; now it tends to be demoted to a ghost inside the machine, but the same emphasis remains. Because we see and touch our bodies, carry their solid weight around with us, and bump into doors if we don't watch out, the reality of the body appears to be primarily material — such is the bias of our world.
But the bias has a huge blind spot in it. Despite the overwhelming superiority of the body's know-how, which scientists freely acknowledge, a minute amount of time and money is spent trying to grasp the living body as a whole, and for very good reason. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus made the famous remark, "You cannot step into a river in the same place twice," because the river is constantly being changed by new water rushing in. The same holds true for the body. All of us are much more like a river than anything frozen in time and space.
If you could see your body as it really is, you would never see it the same way twice. Ninety-eight percent of the atoms in your body were not there a year ago. The skeleton that seems so solid was not there three months ago. The configuration of the bone cells remains somewhat constant, but atoms of all kinds pass freely back and forth through the cell walls, and by that means you acquire a new skeleton every three months.
The skin is new every month. You have a new stomach lining every four days, with the actual surface cells that contact food being renewed every five minutes. The cells in the liver turn over very slowly, but new atoms still flow through them, like water in a river course, making a new liver every six
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weeks. Even within the brain, whose cells are not replaced once they die, the content of carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and so on is totally different today from a year ago.
It is as if you lived in a building whose bricks were systematically taken out and replaced every year. If you keep the same blueprint, then it will still look like the same building. But it won't be the same in actuality. The human body also stands there looking much the same from day to day, but through the processes of respiration, digestion, elimination, and so forth, it is constantly and ever in exchange with the rest of the world.
Certain atoms — carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen — pass through the body very quickly, being an essential part of the things we use up the fastest — food, air, and water. If it were up to only these four elements, we would be creating new bodies for ourselves literally every month. However, the pace of renewal is slowed by other elements that do not flow through us very rapidly. The calcium bound into our bones can take a whole year to replace itself — some authorities extend the time to several years. Iron, the component that makes red blood cells, is held on to quite tenaciously, being lost mainly through the sloughing of dead skin cells or the actual loss of blood.
Even though the rates of change may differ, change is always there. What I am calling "intelligence" takes on the role of guiding this change so that we do not collapse into a heap of bricks. That is one of the most obvious facts about the physiology, but intelligence is so changeable, so quick on the move — in other words, so alive — that medical textbooks devote almost no space to it at all.
To get an idea of how limited our current knowledge is, consider the structure of a neuron. The neurons that compose the brain and central nervous sys tem "talk" to one another across gaps called synapses. These gaps separate the tiny branchlike filaments, the dendrites, that grow at the ends of each nerve cell. Everyone possesses billions of these cells, divided between the brain and the central nervous system, and... each one is capable of growing dozens or even hundreds of dendrites (the total estimated at 100 million million), meaning that at any one time, the possible combinations of signals jumping across the synapses of the brain exceed the number of atoms in the known universe. The signals also communicate with one another at lightning speed. To read this sentence, your brain takes a few milliseconds to arrange a precise pattern of millions of signals, only to dissolve them instantly, never to be repeated again in exactly the same way.
In medical school, we were taught a simple model of how neurons communicate: an electrical charge forms on one side of the synapse, and when the
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charge is large enough, it jumps like a spark across the gap to deliver a signal to another nerve cell. Assuming that this is the correct mechanism (in reality it isn't), the description we learned in our neurology textbook in 1966 told us next to nothing about how neurons act in real life; the book model makes sense only for a single nerve cell, isolated, stopped in time, and stripped of context. In truth, the action taking place at the gaps in the nervous system is like that of a cosmic computer reduced to a microcosmic scale. This awesome computer operates continuously, handles hundreds of programs at a time, deals in multiple billions of "bytes" of information every second, and, most miraculously of all, knows how to run itself.
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Extracts from Deepak Chopra, M.D., Quantum Healing, ch.3,
(The Sculpture or the River). Bantam Books, New York 1989
A synapse or connection
between nerveendings
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Leonardo's drawing: human proportions
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of
the Human Body
The Renaissance is the period of European history which is marked by a break with the Middle Ages. Renaissance means re-birth. The first people to speak of the birth of a new and luminous age, who saw the previous period, the Middle Ages, as Dark Ages, were the Italians. While the Middle Ages had lived strongly and with a sort of sombre force, but always under the burden of an obligation to aspire through suffering to a beyond, in Italy a new confidence, a new optimism was born: the Renaissance was an enthusiastic discovery of joy and beauty in every aspect of life. Inspired by the rediscovery of ancient Greek and Roman manuscripts, by the finding of antique statues, by their passion ate study of ancient "pagan" civilizations, the Italians aspired to free themselves from the burden of the Middle Ages. They looked at life in a new way, and they loved it; it had lost its taint of sin. And this finding reawakened in them the passionate curiosity of the Greeks; they eagerly turned to study nature, observe natural phenomena and search for rational laws; they began to take delight in the intellectual scrutiny of the facts of life.
Artists were at the forefront of this movement. They too aspired to break from the conventionalism of previous ages. They sought to explore nature directly, without the interference of a pre-conceived philosophy or religious symbolism, without having to refer to past authorities.
Of all the things to be represented, the human figure seemed to them the noblest subject for their art. They were fascinated not only by all
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that can be expressed by the body, but also by the complexity of the physical body itself. It looked to them like a wonderful universe to be explored; and they thought that they could not praise God better than by trying to represent the body as accurately as possible. So these men looked at the human body not only as artists would do, searching for beauty and harmony, but also as scientists would, with the desire for knowledge that a person devoted to science can bring. As a matter of fact, many of these painters and sculptors were also scientists. Some took advantage of the discoveries in anatomy made at the time, but some others like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo themselves per formed dozens of dissections, studying each muscle, each nerve and sinew. They ceaselessly observed human bodies in motion and studied the way they walk, they sit, they bend, which muscle is used for which movement, which part of the body rests when another is at work, the proportions between the different limbs, etc.
Painters as well as sculptors had been very enthusiastic about some Greek sculptures that had been recently unearthed in Rome. They also felt the urge to depict nude bodies, and even when the body was hidden by draperies, they wanted the anatomy of the body to show under the folds of the clothes.
Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519),who lived towards the end of the Italian Renaissance, was a perfect example of this new kind of artist who combined imaginative sensitivity and a scientific spirit of enquiry. "Those who devote themselves to practice without science are like sailors who put to sea without rudder or compass and who can never be certain where they are going." This is one amongst the many notes written by Leonardo with the intention of publishing a Treatise on Painting.
Leonardo felt that the human body is a complex unity within the larger field of nature, a microcosm wherein the elements and the powers of the universe were incorporated. In order to study its structure, Leonardo dissected corpses and examined bones, joints, and muscles separately and in relation to one another, making drawings from many angles and taking recourse to visual demonstration since an adequate description could not be given in words. According to him, such visual demonstrations gave "complete and accurate conceptions of the various shapes such as neither ancient nor modern writers have ever been able to give without an infinitely tedious and confused prolixity of writing and of
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time." Moreover, there are not only the various angles, the infinity of aspects to be considered, there are also the continuous successions of phases in movements. The circular movements of shoulder, arm and hand, for instance, is suggestive of a pictorial continuity such as we may see on a strip of a film.
The study of structure included that of function, of the manner in which actions and gestures were performed, how the various muscles work together in bending and straightening the joints, how the weight of a body is supported and balanced. Leonardo looked upon anatomy also with the eye of a mechanical engineer. Each limb, each organ was believed to be designed and perfectly adapted to perform its special function. Thus the muscles of the tongue were made to produce innumerable sounds within the mouth enabling man to pronounce many languages. In his time divisions between the various branches of anatomy did not exist. He investigated problems of physiology and embryology, and he also studied the systems of nerves and arteries and other aspects of the body. He anticipated the principle of blood circulation and prepared the ground for further analyses on many subjects.
We present here a few extracts from Leonardo's notebooks which testify to his unquenchable curiosity for the wonderful human body.
Leonardo's drawing: the anatomy of the thigh on flexion at the knee
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Leonardo's drawing:
study of the shoulder, the arm and one foot
How it is necessary for the painter to know the inner structure of man.
The painter who has a knowledge of the nature of the sinews, muscles, and tendons will know very well in the movement of a limb how many and which of the sinews are the cause of it, and which muscle by swelling is the cause of the contraction of that sinew; and which sinews expanded into most delicate cartilage surround and support the said muscle.
In fifteen entire figures there shall be revealed to you the microcosm on the same plan as before me was adopted by Ptolemy in his cosmography; and I shall divide them into limbs as he divided the macrocosm into provinces; and I shall then define the functions of the parts in every direction, placing before your eyes the representation of the whole figure of man and his capacity of movements by means of his parts. And would that it might please our Creator that I were able to reveal the nature of man and his customs even as I describe his figure.
As regards the disposition of the limbs in movement you will have to consider that when you wish to represent a man who for some reason has to turn backwards or to one side you must not make him move his feet and all his limbs towards the side to which he turns his head. Rather must you make the action proceed by degrees and through the different joints, that is those of the foot, the knee, the hips and the neck. If you set him on the right leg, you must make his left knee bend inwards and his left foot slightly raised on the outside; and the nape of the neck is in a line directly over the outer ankle of the left foot. And the left shoulder will be in a perpendicular line, above the toes of the right foot. And always set your figures so that the side to which the head turns is not the side to which the breast faces, since nature for our convenience has made us with a neck which bends with ease in many
directions as the eye turns to various points and the other joints are Partly obedient to it.
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Of human movement
When you wish to represent a man in the act of moving some weight, reflect that these movements are to be represented in different directions. A man may stoop to lift a weight with the intention of lifting it as he straightens himself; this is a simple movement from below upwards; or he may wish to pull something backwards, or push it forward or draw it down with a rope that passes over a pulley. Here you should remember that a man's weight drags in proportion as the centre of his gravity is distant from that of his support, and you must add to this the force exerted by his legs and bent spine as he straightens himself.
The sinew which guides the leg, and which is connected with the patella of the knee, feels it a greater labour to carry the man upwards in proportion as the leg is more bent; the muscle which acts upon the angle made by the thigh where it joins the body has less difficulty and less weight to lift, because it has not the weight of the thigh itself. And besides this its muscles are stronger being those which form the buttock.
The first thing that the man does when he ascends by steps is to free the leg which he wishes to raise from the weight of the trunk which is resting upon this leg, and at the same time he loads the other leg with his entire weight including that of the raised leg. Then he raises the leg and places the foot on the step where he wishes to mount; having done this he conveys to the higher foot all the weight of the trunk and of the leg and leaning his hand upon his thigh, thrusts the head forward and moves towards the point of the higher foot, while raising swiftly the heel of the lower foot; and with the impetus thus acquired he raises himself up; and at the same time by extending the arm which was resting upon his knee he pushes the trunk and head upwards and thus straightens the curve of his back.
There are [four] principle simple movements in the flexion per formed by the joint of the shoulder, namely when the arm attached to the same moves upward or downwards or forward or backward. One might say, though, that such movements are infinite. For if we turn our shoulder towards a wall and describe a circular figure with our arm we shall have performed all the movements contained in the said shoulder. And, since [every circle is] a continuous quantity, the movement of the arm [has produced] a continuous quantity. This movement would not produce a continuous quantity were it not guided by the principle of
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continuation. Therefore, the movement of that arm has been through all the parts of the circle. And as the circle is divisible in infinitum the variations of the shoulder have been infinite.
The Tongue: Of the muscles which move the tongue
No organ needs so great a number of muscles as the tongue, — of these twenty-four were already known apart from the others that I have discovered; and of all the members moved by voluntary action this exceeds all the rest in the number of its movements.... The present task is to discover in what way these twenty-four muscles are divided or apportioned in the service of the tongue in its necessary movements which are many and varied; and in addition it has to be seen in what manner the nerves descend to it from the base of the brain, and how they pass into this tongue distributing themselves and breaking into ramifications. And it must further be noted how these twenty-four muscles convert themselves into six in the formation they make in the tongue. Moreover, you should show whence these muscles have their origin, that is some in the vertebrae of the neck... some in the maxilla, and some on the trachea.... And similarly how the veins nourish them and how the nerves give them sensation....
The tongue works in the pronunciation and articulation of the syllables which constitute the words. This tongue is also employed during
Study of the tongue
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the necessary revolutions of the food in the process of mastication and in the cleansing there from of the inside of the mouth and teeth. Its principal movements are seven....
Consider well how by the movement of the tongue, with the help of the lips and teeth, the pronunciation of all the names of things is known to us; and how the simple and compound words of a language reach our ears by means of this instrument; and how these, if there were a name, for all the effects of nature, would approach infinity, together with the countless things which are in action and in the power of nature; and these man does not express in one language only but in a great number, and these also tend to an infinity; because they vary continually from century to century, and from one country to another, through the intermingling of the peoples who by wars and other mis-chances continually mix with one another; and the same languages are liable to pass into oblivion, and they are mortal like all created things; and if we grant that our world is everlasting, we shall say that these languages have been, and still will be, of infinite variety, through the infinite centuries which constitute infinite time. And this is not the case with any other sense; for these are concerned only with such things as nature continually produces; and the ordinary shapes of things created by nature do not change, as from time to time do the things created by man, who is nature's greatest instrument.
The Lips: Of the muscles which move the lips of the mouth
The muscles which move the lips of the mouth are more numerous in man than in any other animal; and this is necessary for him on account of the many action in which these lips are continually employed, as in the four letters of the alphabet bfmp, in whistling, laughing, weeping, and similar actions. Also in the strange contortions used by clowns when they imitate faces.
What muscle is that which so tightens the mouth that its lateral boundaries come near together?
The muscles which tighten the mouth thus lessening its length are in the lips; or rather these lips are the actual muscles which close them selves. In fact this muscle alters the size of the lip below other muscles, which are joined to it and of which one pair distends it and moves it to laughter,... and the muscle which contracts it is the same of which the lower lip is formed; and a similar process goes on simultaneously in
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the upper lip. There are other muscles which bring the lips to a point; others that flatten them; others which cause them to curl back, others that straighten them; others which twist them all awry; and others which bring them back to the first position. So there always are as many muscles as correspond to the various attitudes of these lips and as many others that serve to reverse these attitudes; and these it is my purpose here to describe and represent in full, proving these movements by means of my mathematical principles.
The Embryo
Though human ingenuity may make various inventions answering by different machines to the same end, it will never devise an invention more beautiful, more simple, more direct than does Nature; because in her inventions nothing "is lacking, and nothing is superfluous. She needs no counterpoise when she creates limbs fitted for movement in the bodies of animals, but puts within them the soul of the body which forms them, that is the soul of the mother which first constructs within the womb the shape of man, and in due time awakens the soul that is to be its inhabitant.
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Extracts from the Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci
selected & edited by Irma A. Richter, Oxford University Press.
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Part II
Health and Nutrition
The Indian tradition: A depiction of the "subtle body", with its network of wheels (chakras) and fibres (nadis). In this holistic view, the question of health is not restricted to the gross body". It looks upon the human being as a whole consisting of body, mind and spirit.
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Introduction
Health is the most basic quality that a body must have and, in any given society, there is a spontaneous recognition of the paramount importance of health. In fact, health is felt so precious that special beliefs about it are common: for instance quite a few people feel that talking about their good health could provoke the fall of the Damocles' sword of ill-health upon them. Another example is the feeling of beating the odds to remain healthy in old age, as if the norm was to expect bad health to prevail sooner or later. One finds in quite many people a fatalistic element in their perception of health which nearly turns it into a twin sister of destiny.
There can be no denying that destiny plays its role in health: recent discoveries in the science of genes have shown that the initial health capital bestowed on human beings at birth varies considerably, from excellent to downright catastrophic. But it is equally clear that similar or identical bases can produce very different end-results. Ultimately, in most cases, the way of life is the determining factor of health. To remain healthy is not merely a matter of luck: having given due recognition to the power of genes, circumstances and accidents, fatalism about health is unwarranted.
Excessive preoccupation with health is also not helpful: hypochondriacs, as they are called, due to an excessive preoccupation with their health, often suffer the effect of their apprehensions physically.
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Hypochondriacs can become really sick from their thoughts because the mind has such a power on the state of the body.
To find the right balance in attitude, one which is neither fatalistic, nor indifferent, nor unduly apprehensive calls for an exercise in proper consciousness. Each human being is unique and the complex blend of psycho-physiological elements in each person demands a personal synthesis. Health can be obtained and maintained in many different ways' according to cultural backgrounds and personal inclinations.
Health merits our keen and sustained attention. After all, without health, most of the potentialities of life cannot be fully developed. It is an unfortunate but recognized fact that a large majority of the human race still lives in rather poor health, even without being "sick". We are nonetheless convinced that for most people good health is attainable, provided they understand that it is first and foremost their responsibility. Unfortunately, people seem to have been much mesmerized by the belief that sickness is natural, that sickness occurs as part of the rhythm of human life and that one has simply to suffer illness when it grips the body. There is also the common idea that body's health and illness are matters for doctors and that only doctors, by their prescriptions and medicines, are able to maintain a person's health. People are often strongly advised that for any problems in regard to their health, they should immediately rush to doctors for they alone can tell what is wrong and what should be done.
These ideas and conceptions have some elements of truth: it is true that there are rhythms in the body and cycles of health and illness; it is also true that doctors have expert knowledge which is helpful in diagnosis and cure. But this can in no way justify the individual's abdication of personal responsibility towards maintaining health. The primary responsibility for health must rest upon the individual, and every individual should receive adequate education so as to become conscious of this responsibility with the capacity to discharge it.
What does actually health mean? What specific experiences does one have when one is healthy? Different systems of medicine give their own specific accounts of what constitutes a healthy body. Though there are some differences, all of them agree that a healthy body enjoys a general state of equilibrium, a state in which every organ of the body functions smoothly and in harmony with the other organs. Real health is the experience of freshness and adequate energy for whatever work
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that the body is required to undertake. Real health provides a natural enthusiasm and even an urge to give exercise to the body with a sense of pleasure. There should be good appetite and thirst at right intervals, and an easy process of digestion.
One must know that if this state of equilibrium is disturbed or if there are signs of fatigue or deterioration, one must be vigilant and immediately set about putting things in order. In such cases expert advice from good and experienced doctors is very useful and often necessary. At the same time one must strive to gain enough personal knowledge and experience to know one's body, its usual tendencies, its weaknesses and strengths and some specific means by which one's body can be brought back to the normal state of equilibrium. It must be understood that even the most serious illnesses can be avoided by intelligent self-care of the body. The basic and essential point is that one must feel responsible for one's health.
Personal responsibility is then what should count more and could bring real solutions to the problems that most nations are facing today in terms of managing their health systems. It is not merely by having more medicines, more hospitals and more doctors that the basic problem of health at the collective level can better be solved. Education is what can be and should be the most potent remedy in the long term.
The present quasi-ignorance of most people, even in developed societies, about the inner processes of the human body is an indictment of all educational systems: how is it possible that so many men and women have spent years in schools and yet often have only hazy notions about the human body and its basic functions? How is it that even most dedicated parents do not seem even to think of the importance of imparting even a minimum knowledge of the human body to their children ? Moreover, what could be more beautiful to teach than the mystery and excellence of the human body? If this fundamental knowledge could become one of the important parts of all curricula for all ages, a serious and useful understanding of the body and its complex processes could gradually be built. Indeed. no matter what methods are found to reform national health systems, their success will probably depend a great deal on whether a new and deeper conscious ness about health can be developed in the public at large.
There are reasons to believe that the traditional concepts about life and health which are still to a large extent prevalent, belong to an.
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already obsolete vision of reality: in the world of physics, the under standing of what reality is has changed radically. Some researchers in advanced physics wonder whether the objective reality is not grounded in subjectivity or whether objective and subjective are not simultaneous aspects of the same reality. It is also becoming more and more apparent that, to understand the concept of health, one needs to realize that health is a holistic concept, that physical health and mental health are interdependent, and there are even deeper moral, aesthetic and spiritual factors which combine together to influence the general state of health. The considerable influence and power of mind upon body is now recognized, and positive thinking is more and more used as an important, even essential part of a cure, particularly in the most serious diseases.
Miraculous results in certain difficult cases have been obtained by visualization. A pioneer of such methods towards the beginning of the 20th century, Emile Coue, a Frenchman, said that Imagination is a far greater power than Will. He helped many patients to cure themselves simply by making them repeat twenty times morning and evening the following formula: "Every day, at every point of view, I am getting better and better". As long as there is a persistent adherence to the now obsolete frozen view of reality, where bodies are seen as separate objects with "parts" to be eventually "repaired" through specialized methods which generally do no take into account the totality of the per son, the "patient" (what a significant denomination!) is too often reduced to be a passive and apprehensive spectator of his own treatment. The treatment being carried out is rarely explained to the patient in a way that is easy to understand and very often the patient is simply required to surrender to medical authority. No doubt, there are signs that things are changing and more and more doctors are treating their "patients" in ways that elicit a real participation in the fight for health. Larry Dossey in the USA is one of the leading doctors in that category and we have selected excerpts of one of his books where he reflects upon health in the context of the revolutionary perspective brought by modern physics.
The idea that health is not mechanical but organic in character was developed in India in ancient times. The Vedas speak of the organic and holistic harmony of spirit and body as a condition of true health. Each organ and limb of the body and all of them together were required to be
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concentrated upon by the seeker of perfection. Aspiration to live a long and full life of hundred years in perfect health was a cornerstone of the Medic endeavour. "By performing actions here on the earth, one must aspire to live for hundred years", — such was the injunction of the Yajurveda. Another Vedic prayer expresses the aspiration, "May we live for hundred autumns, may we see for hundred autumns, may we speak for hundred autumns, may we hear for hundred autumns, and may we even live more than hundred autumns." In another hymn. the seeker prays for spiritual well-being supported by the physical body and nourished by contentment of all the organs and limbs made capable of stability for the entire span of life. The secrets of longevity and perfect health were known to the Vedic seers and they constituted an important part of their quest of immortality. The capacity of the body to bear the pressure of the universality of consciousness was considered to be an indispensable element in the Vedic ideal of perfection. It is for this reason that the ancient Indian system of medicine was named the Science of Life, Ayur Veda, and the concept of physical, mental and spiritual equilibrium was its first principle. The Ayurvedic concept of health is organic and holistic, and it lays a special emphasis on the concept of health as a condition of happiness which transcends mere worldly happiness. It looks upon the human being as a whole consisting of body, mind and spirit. Even the gross physical body is conceived as consisting of dhatus, substances, which are rather subtle in character. It declares that dhatus consist of Vata (wind), Pitta (bile), Kapha (phlegm). They also include Rasa, the essential sap of life, Rakta, blood, Mansa, muscle tissue, Medas, adipose tissue, Asthi, bone tissue, Majja, marrow, Shukra, semen. It also consists of upadhatus, subordinate substances, like Rajas, the force of dynamism and impulsion, etc. It describes health as equilibrium of all these dhatus.
It is impossible within the limits of space available here to give a full account of the Ayurvedic system of health, healing and nutrition. We have therefore attempted to bring together a few elements of the science of Ayurveda: certain specific descriptions and prescriptions to be found in its system of therapeutics which have a direct bearing on its understanding of the problems of health and healing.
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Definition of health and disease
Dhatus consist of vata, pitta and kapha; rasa, rakta, mamsa, medas, asthi, majja and sukra; and upadhatus like rajas, etc. Any deficiency or excess in the normal quantity of the dhatus causes vikara or disease. Equilibrium of these dhatus, on the other hand, is prakrti, that is health.
Absolute equilibrium of the dhatus, in fact, is not possible. For example, kapha invariably gets vitiated in the first part of the day and night, immediately after taking food and during childhood. In the similar other circumstances, pitta and vata also invariably remain vitiated. To this extent, an absolute equilibrium of the dhatus is never possible. So arogya, that is health, can be defined as happiness. Happiness again is a relative term to be construed depending upon the conditions varying from individual to individual. For, no worldly happiness can ever be called happiness in absolute terms. All the worldly conditions are tinged with an element of misery, a slight disturbance in the equilibrium of dhatus does not cause any distinct uneasiness in the body and as such it can be called a state of happiness or so. In other words, equilibrium of dhatus even includes such conditions where there is only a slight deviation from normalcy. To sum up: health is a state of happiness or pleasure; vikara or disease, on the other, hand, is the cause of misery or pain. Misery itself is not the disease. If it were so, jvara (fever), etc. which are only the causative factors of misery would not be regarded as diseases.
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Definition of therapeutics
The entire effort of the four, viz., physician, medicament, attendant and patient, possessing requisite qualities, for the revival of the equilibrium of dhatus in the event of their equilibrium' being disturbed, is known as therapeutics.
Effort of a physician includes his judgement about his duties and otherwise; that of the medicament includes therapeutic action when administered; an attendant's action includes preparation of medicaments and nursing; the effort of the patient lies in following the instructions of the physician and in giving the correct history of his disease.
Qualities of Physician
Excellence in medical knowledge, an extensive practical experience, dexterity and purity — these are the four qualities of a physician.
Excellence in knowledge can be had by attending on preceptors and studying scriptures. Purity in a physician helps the patient by dint of its spiritual force. Reputation as infallible in prescribing medicines is also one of the qualities of a physician which is included in the four qualities mentioned above.
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Examination of disease
The disturbance of the equilibrium of dhatus is the source of action. The disturbance of the equilibrium of dhatus is invariably indicated by the onset of the disease. This state of health can be ascertained from the appearance of specific symptoms in the smaller or greater degrees due to the dosas responsible for the causation of the disease and also from the specific characteristics of the disease e.g. curability, incurability, mildness, seriousness etc..
Examination to ascertain if the disease is cured
The equilibrium of dhatus represents the "action itself." It is invariably associated with the alleviation or absence of the disease. This state of health can be ascertained from the following:
1. alleviation of pain;
2. appearance of normal voice and complexion;
3. nourishment of the body;
4. increase in strength;
5. desire for taking food;
6. appetite for food during meal-time;
7. proper digestion of the food taken during meal-time;
8. getting sleep at the appropriate time;
9. absence of dreams indicating morbidity;
10. happy awakening;
11. proper elimination of wind, urine, stool and semen; and
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12. unimpairement of mind, intellect and senses and association of all healthy symptoms therewith.
Signs of normalcy
Attainment of spiritual happiness is the result of therapeutic action. It is characterized by the pleasure or satisfaction of the mind, intellect, senses and the body.
Signs of ayus
Anubandha or subsequent manifestation is the maintenance of life (longevity). It is characterized by its union with prana type of vayu.
Examination of the land to ascertain particulars about the patient
Both the land as well as the patient constitute desa or habitat. Nature of the land is examined with a view to ascertaining the specific features of individual patients as well as the medicinal plants in different localities. The following points are to be examined with reference to the patient:
1. place of birth, growth and affliction with the disease;
2. specific features concerning food, exercise, customs, strength, mental condition, homologation by habit, dominance of one or the
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other of the dosas, liking, manifestation of diseases and things which are useful and harmful.
The above information is generally obtained by the examination of the land. The term desa meaning habitat includes both the patients as well as healthy individuals. Individuals of the latter category are included here because they are also susceptible to the attacks of diseases. They are required to be examined with a view to administering such regimens as would keep them healthy.
Examination of Patient
A patient constitutes the karyadesa or the site for the administration
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of therapies with a view to bringing about equilibrium of dhatus. He should be examined so as to obtain knowledge regarding the span of life, strength and the intensity of morbidity. Here, the purpose of examination is to obtain the knowledge relating to the strength of the individual and the intensity of morbidity, because it is on the basis of the intensity of morbidity that the dosage of the therapy is determined and the latter is dependent upon the strength or the power of resistance of the individual. If strong things are immediately administered without proper examination to a weak patient, this might result in his death. Weak patients are incapable of resisting strong therapies like medicaments dominating in agni and vayu mahabhutas, application of alkalise and heat (cauterization) and surgical operations. These therapies cause immediate death of the patient because of their very sharp action which are too strong for the individual. Thus a weak patient should be given such mild and tender therapies as are not injurious to the body and the mind. Stronger therapies which are neither distressing during their digestion nor associated with serious complications may be administered slowly and gradually. Such therapies are specifically needed for ladies because they are by nature unsteady, light (not deep) and of sensitive or weak temperament and also because they are mostly tender and subordinate to others. Similarly, if weak therapies are administered to a strong individual having a serious disease without proper examination, the disease does not get cured. Therefore, the patient should be examined with reference to his prakrti (physical constitution), vikrti (morbidity), sara (excellence of dhatus, or tissue elements), samhanana (compactness of organs), pramana (measurement of the organs of the body), satmya (homologation), sattva (psychic conditions), aharasakti (power of intake and digestion of food), vyayamasakti (power of performing exercise) and vayas (age) in order to ascertain his strength and the intensity of the malady.
The dosage in which a therapy is to be administered depends upon the intensity of morbidity as well as the strength of the patient. A strong patient with a serious disease needs the therapy in a stronger dose. Mistakes like giving strong therapies to weak patients and vice versa can be avoided if patients are duly examined beforehand. Even if a weak person is suffering from a serious disease which requires a strong therapy for cure, he should not be given a strong therapy all of a sudden. Such a patient should be given strong therapy slowly and gradually, depending upon his strength and power of resistance gained..
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Prakrti
Now we shall explain the characteristic features of prakrti (physical constitution etc.,). Prakrti or physical constitution of the foetus is determined by the following factors :
1. sperms and ovum;
2. season and condition of the uterus;
3. food and regimens of the mother; and
4. nature of the mahabhutas comprising the foetus. The foetus gets afflicted with one or more of the dosas which are dominantly associated with the above mentioned factors. The physical constitution of an individual is determined on the basis of these dominant dosas in the above mentioned factors when they initially unite in the form of foetus. Therefore, the physical constitution of some is dominated by kapha (slesmala), of some others by pitta (pittala) of others by vata (vatala) and of some others by the combination of two dosas (samsrista). In some other cases, however, the equilibrium of dosas (samaprakrti) is well maintained. We shall now expound their characteristic features one after the other.
Dosas dominating the sperms and the ovum during the time of conception and also those inhabiting the uterus at that time determine the prakrti (physical constitution) of the individual. Food and regimens of the mother which aggravate dosas at that time also determine the physical constitution. The dosa(s) which ultimately emerge as dominant factors actually determine the prakrti or the physical constitution. Season etc., also indirectly serve as important factors for the determination of prakrti inasmuch as they also aggravate dosas in the sperms and ovum.
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Characteristics of slesmala individual
Kapha is unctuous, smooth, soft, sweet, firm, dense, slow, stable, heavy, cold, viscous and clear.
The various manifestations in the human body having slesmala type constitution are given below :
Attributes of Slesma
1. unctuous;
2. smooth:
3. soft:
4. sweet:
5. firm:
6. dense:
7. slow:
8.stable:
9.heavy:
10. cold:
11. viscous:
12. clear:
Specific manifestations in the body of the individual having slesmala type of constitution.
unctuousness of organs.
smoothness of organs.
pleasing appearance, tenderness, clarity of complexion.
increase in the quantity of semen, desire for sex-act and number of procreations.
firmness, compactness and stability of the body.
plumpness and roundedness of all organs.
slow in action, intake of food and movement.
slowness, in initiating actions, in getting irritated and in morbid manifestations.
non-slippery and stable gait with the entire sole of the feet pressing against the earth.
lack of intensity in hunger, thirst, heat and perspiration
firmness and compactness in joints.
happiness in the look and face; happiness and softness of complexion and voice.
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By virtue of the above mentioned qualities, a man having slesmala type of constitution is endowed with the excellence of strength, wealth, knowledge, energy, peace and longevity.
Characteristics of pittala individual
Pitta is hot, sharp, liquid, of fleshy smell, sour and pungent. Various manifestations due to these attributes in the human body having pittala type of constitution are as in the table given below :
Attributes of pitta
1.hot:
Specific manifestations in the body of the individual having pittala type of constitution.
intolerance for hot things, having hot face, tender and clear body of port-wine mark, freckles, black mole, excessive hunger and thirst; quick advent of wrinkles, greying of hair and baldness; presence of some soft and brown hair in the face, head and other parts of the body.
2. sharp:
sharp (demonstration of) physical strength, strong digestive power, intake of food and drink in
large quantity, inability to face difficult situations and glutton habits;
3. liquid:
4. fleshy smell:
55. pungent tastes:
looseness and softness of joints and muscles; voiding of sweat, urine and feces in large quantity.
putrid smell of axilla, mouth, head and body in excess;
insufficiency of semen, sexual desire and procreation.
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By virtue of the above mentioned qualities, a man having pittala type of constitution is endowed with moderate strength, moderate span of life, moderate spiritual and materialistic knowledge, wealth and the accessories of life.
Characteristic of vatala individual
Vata is ununctuous, light, mobile, abundant in quantity, swift, cold, rough and non-slime. Various manifestations due to these attributes of vata in a body having vatala type of constitution are given below :
Attributes of vata
1. Ununctuous:
Specific manifestations in the body of the individual having vatala type of constitution
ununctuousness, emaciation and dwarfness of the body; longdrawn, dry low, broken, obstructed and hoarse voice; always keeping awake;
2. light:
3. mobile:
4.abundance:
5. swift:
light and inconsistent gait, action, food and movement;
unstable joints-eyes, eye brows, jaws, lips, tongue, head, shoulder, hands and legs;
talkativeness, abundance in tendons and veins;
quick in initiating actions, getting irritated and the onset of morbid manifestation; quick in affliction with fear, quick in likes and dislikes; quick in understanding and forgetting things;
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6. cold:
7. rough:
intolerance for cold things; often getting afflicted with cold, shivering and stiffness;
roughness in the hair of the head, face and other parts of the body, nails, teeth, face, hands and feet.
8. non-slime:
cracking of the limbs and organs, production of cracking sound in joints when they move.
Because of the above mentioned qualities, individuals having vatala type of constitution are mostly possessed of strength, span of life, pro creation, accessories of life and wealth in lesser quantity.
Individuals having constitution dominated by the combination of two dosas are characterized by the combination of the manifestations of respective dosas.
A samadhatu type of individual who has all the dosas in the state of equilibrium is endowed with the good qualities of all the three types of individuals. Thus an individual should be examined for his constitution.
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Examination of sara (Excellence)
Patients are to be examined with reference to sara or the excellence of their dhatus. With a view to determining the specific measure of strength they are classified into eight categories, depending upon the sara or excellence of their dhatus, viz. tvak (skin), rakta (blood), mamsa (muscle tissue), medas (adipose tissue), asthi (bone tissue), majja (marrow) sukra (semen) and sattva (mental faculties).
(a) Tvak-sara (Excellence of skin):
Individuals having the excellence of tvak or skin are characterized by unctuous, smooth, soft, clear, fine, less numerous, deep rooted and tender hair and lustrous skin. Such individuals are endowed with happiness, good fortunes, power, enjoyment, intellect, knowledge, health, excitement and longevity.
(b) Rakta-sara (Excellence of blood):
Individuals having the excellence of rakta or blood are characterized by unctuousness, red colour, beautiful dazzling appearance of the ears, eyes, face, tongue, nose, lips, sole of the hands and feet, nails, forehead and genital organs. Such individuals are endowed with happiness, great genius, enthusiasm, tenderness, moderate strength and inability to face difficulties. Their body remains hot.
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(c) Mamsa-sara (Excellence of muscle tissue):
Individuals having the excellence of the mamsa or muscle tissue are characterized by stability, heaviness, beautiful appearance and plumpness of temples, forehead, nape, eyes, cheeks, jaws, neck, shoulder, abdomen, axillae, chest and joints of upper and lower limbs being covered with flesh. Such individuals are endowed with forgiveness, patience, non-greediness, wealth, knowledge, happiness, simplicity, health, strength and longevity.
(d) Medah sara (Excellence of adipose tissue):
Individuals having the excellence of medas or adipose tissue are characterized by the abundance of unctuousness in complexion, voice, eyes, hair of the head and other parts of the body, nail, teeth, lips, urine and feces. Such individuals are endowed with wealth, power, happiness, enjoyment, clarity, simplicity and delicate habits.
(e) Asthi-sara (Excellence of bone tissue):
Individuals having the excellence of asthi or bone tissue are characterized by robust heels, ankles, knees, forearm, collarbones, chin, head, Joints, bones, nails and teeth. Such individuals are very enthusiastic and active, and are endowed with strong and firm bodies as well as longevity.
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(f) Majja-sara (Excellence of marrow):
Individuals having the excellence of majja or marrow are characterized by softness of organs, strength, unctuous complexion and voice" and robust, long and rounded joints. Such individuals are endowed with longevity, learning, wealth, knowledge, progeny and honour.
(g) Sukra-sara (Excellence of semen):
Individuals having the excellence of sukradhatu or semen are characterized by gentleness, gentle look, having eyes as if filled with milk, cheerfulness, having teeth which are unctuous, round, strong, even and beautiful, clean and unctuous complexion and voice, dazzling appearance and large buttocks. Such individuals are loved by women, they are strong and endowed with happiness, power, health, wealth, honour and children.
(h) Sattva-sara (Excellence of mental faculties):
Individuals having the excellence of mental faculties are characterized by good memory, devotion, gracefulness, wisdom, purity, excessive enthusiasm, skill, courage, valour in fighting, absence of sorrow, proper gait, depth of wisdom and sincerity in actions and virtuous acts. (These characteristic features represent the qualities of such individuals.)
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Individuals having all saras
Individuals possessed of the excellence of all the above mentioned dhatus including mental faculties are endowed with great strength and happiness, resistance to difficulties, self-confidence in all enterprises, virtuous acts, firm and well built body, correct gait, resonant, melodious and high pitched voice, happiness, power, wealth, enjoyments, honour, slowness of aging process, resistance for diseases, large number of children with similar qualities and longevity.
Need for examination of sara
It is fallacious to consider an individual to be strong or weak either from his plumpy or emaciated body or from the large or small size of his body. Some people having a small sized and emaciated body are seen to be strong. They are like ants who have a small body and look emaciated but can carry too heavy a load. Thus one should examine the individual with reference to the excellence of his dhatus.
Samhanana
A patient is to be examined with reference to his samhanana or
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compactness of the body. Samhanana, samhati and samyojana — these three terms are synonymous. A compact body is characterized by the symmetrical and well divided bones, well-knit joints and well bound muscles and blood. An individual having a compact body is very strong; otherwise he is weak. When the body is moderately compact, the individual is possessed of moderate strength.
Pramana
The patient is also to be examined with reference to pramana or the measurement of his bodily organs. This is determined by measuring the height, length and breath of the organs, taking the finger breadth of the individual as the unit of measurement.... Thus the measurement of individual organs of the body are described. A body possessed of organs having proper measurement is endowed with longevity, strength, ojas (energy), happiness, power, wealth and virtues. If the measurement is either on the high or low side, the individual possesses qualities contrary to what are mentioned above.
Satmya
A patient is also to be examined with reference to his satmya or homologation. Satmya stands for such factors as are wholesome to the individual even when continuously used. Individuals for whom ghee, milk, oil and meat soup as well as the drugs and diets having all the six tastes are wholesome are endowed with strength, the power of facing difficult
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situations and longevity. Those who are accustomed to ununctuous things, and drugs and diets having only one particular taste, are mostly possessed of less strength, less power (or resistance) to face difficult situations, are of smaller life-span and of meagre accessories like drugs for the treatment of his diseases. If there is combination of both these types of homologation, individuals are possessed of moderate strength.
Sattva
The patient is again to be examined with reference to his sattva or mental faculties. Sattva is mind and it regulates the body because of its association with the soul. Depending upon its strength, it is of three types, viz. superior, mediocre and inferior. Thus human beings are classified into three categories depending upon the superiority, mediocrity or inferiority of their mental faculties. Individuals having mental faculties of superior type are possessed of the excellence of these faculties and the characteristic features of such individuals are described above. Even if possessed of weak physique, such individuals, because of the specific manifestations of sattva qualities in them, tolerate serious exoganous and endogenous diseases without much difficulty. Individuals having mediocrity of mental faculties tolerate the pain themselves when they realize that others can also tolerate it, then they at times gain strength from others. Those having Inferior type of menial faculties, neither by themselves nor through others can sustain weir mental strength and even if possessed of plump or big physique, they cannot tolerate even mild pain. They are susceptible to fear, grief, greed, delusion and ego. When they hear even stories describing
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wrathful, fearful, hateful, terrifying and ugly situations or come across visions or flesh or blood of an animal or man, they fall victims to depression, pallor, fainting, madness, giddiness or falling on the ground, or such events that may even lead them to death.
Capacity for food
A patient is further to be examined with reference to his aharasakti or the capacity for intake of food.
One's capacity for food can be examined from two angles, viz. the power of ingestion as well as the power of digestion. Both the strength and life-span are determined by the diet of the individual. Digestion of food when taken in large quantity is indicative of one's capacity for food. Digestion of food when taken in small quantity does not do so.
Capacity for exercise
The patient should be examined with reference to his capacity for exercise which is determined by one's ability to perform work like lifting weight etc. Strength of individuals is classified into three categories, depending upon their ability to perform work.
Span of life
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The patient should be examined with reference to his age which represents the state of his body depending upon the length of the time that has passed since birth. Age is broadly of three types, viz. young age, middle age and old age.
Young age is again of two types, viz. (i) immature stage lasting upto 16th year of age and (ii) maturing stage lasting upto the 30th year of age. During immature stage various organs of the body are not well developed, there is tenderness, the individual cannot tolerate difficulties, there is incomplete strength and the dominance of kapha dosa in the body. During the second stage i.e. the stage of maturing lasting upto 30th year of age, the mental faculties are not properly developed.
During the middle age lasting upto the 60th year of age, there is well manifested strength, energy, manliness and valour, power of understanding, retention, memorizing, speech and analyzing facts and the qualities of all dhatus; there is the dominance of pittadosa.
Thereafter during old age lasting upto 100th year of age, there is diminution of the dhatus (tissue elements), strength of sense organs, energy, manliness, valour, power of understanding, retention, memorizing, speech and analyzing facts. There is gradual diminution in the qualities of dhatus and dominance of vata during this age.
During this kali age, the span of life is hundred years. Of course, there are people who live for a longer or shorter period than this. This age should be classified by determining the life-span with the help of factors described above, viz. prakriti (physical constitution) etc. excluding morbidity and also with the help of characteristic features of individuals having various categories of life-span.
Extracts from Caraka Samhita, edited by R.K Sharma & V.B. Dash,
Chowkhamba Sanskrit Series Office, Varanasi 2002
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What is Health?
Modern physics has presented entirely new theories about the world and how it behaves. These theories have been widely accepted, and yet conventional medicine has been reluctant to incorporate them into itself and continues to view the body as a clockwork mechanism in which illness is viewed as a breakdown of parts.
In his remarkable book Space, Time and Medicine, Dr. Larry Dossey shows how medicine can and must be updated. Drawing on his long experience in the practice of internal medicine and his knowledge of modern science, Dr. Dossey opens up startling questions. Could the brain be a hologram in which every part contains the whole? Why have ordinary people been able to raise and lower blood pressure at will, control heart rate, body temperature, even minute blood vessels, in a way no one can explain? What is the role of consciousness in health and illness? Larry Dossey argues that just as the clockwork picture of the universe was abandoned in the onslaught of new data, so will the mechanistic view of health and illness give way to new models which, too, will be more consistent with the true face of the universe.
Larry Dossey practises internal medicine in the United States, and is also actively engaged in clinical research. He is Chief of Staff of a large Dallas Hospital and an adjunct professor in the Department of Psychology, North Texas State University.
What is health? There is no generally accepted answer, and one of the embarrassments of modem medicine is its inability to define exactly what it is that it promotes. Most persons tend to visualize health in negative terms — I don't have high blood pres sure; I don't have an elevated blood cholesterol level; I don't have any
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obvious abnormalities on my physical examination. If my doctor can't find anything wrong, I must be healthy. This prevalent way of defining health does not, however, tell us what health is. And even the attempts to couch a definition of health in positive terms are flawed. The World Health Organization has defined health as the total physical, psycho logical, and spiritual well-being of an individual — yet these concepts are too vague to be very useful. They are not clear about what this well-being actually is, or what is meant by the proper function of the spiritual, physical, and psychological parts of ourselves....
Health, we ordinarily presume, somehow emanates from within us. This supposition reflects our reflexive way of attributing all characteristics such as health — and even life itself — to the behaviour of our constituent molecules. Yet it is not entirely clear that this is so. David Bohm, in speaking of the living world, uses the example of a seed. Almost all of the matter and energy that emerge as the seed grows comes from the environment. "Who is to say," says Bohm, "that life was not immanent, even before the seed was planted?" And if life was immanent prior to the unfolding of the seed in its growing form, then , the growing seed becomes more than the mere matter from which it; began, as it takes on life itself. The growing seed has become more ! than the behaviour of constituent molecules.
This life-energy, a term Bohm uses, belongs to the implicate order, — that unseen totality that, says Bohm, underlies the external world of; things and events (which belong to the explicate order), and in which '3 all things are grounded. Bohm has also proposed that health is the result of the harmonious interaction of all the analyzable parts which comprise the explicate order'— the cells, tissues, organ systems, and the entire physical body — with the external environment. For Bohm, health is harmony, a quality ultimately grounded, as are all things, in the totality of the implicate order, and not in the particulate things themselves....
The essence of the nonobstructed, indivisible, flowing movement of the implicate order is harmony — which for Bohm is the meaning of health when this harmony is transcribed into the explicate world. But since pure flow and movement are imperfect in living organisms (breakdowns do occur), harmony — and thus health — is imperfect. Things go wrong. The result is disease, a break in harmony. All living organisms change and die.
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Seen in this way, health has a kinetic quality. There is an essential dynamism to it.... Health is not static.
Yet how differently we ordinarily conceive health! For many of us our image of health is to be frozen at some stage of youth, whereafter things never change. We wish to capture this state in some crystallized, static form, and so remain healthy thereafter. But it cannot be so, for health is harmony, and harmony has no meaning without the fluid movement of interdependent parts. Like a stream that becomes stagnant when it ceases to flow, harmony and health turn into disease and death when stasis occurs. We return to the concept of the biodance, the endless streaming of the body-in-flux.
It is pathetic that we have lost touch with this kinetic quality of health. We view health as a frozen painting, a still collection of bits of information: electrocardiograms, blood pressure readings, laboratory values for liver enzymes, blood sugar, and kidney function. Even health facilities that overtly emphasize kinetic aspects of health care — the movement sports such as jogging frequently convert the distance a client has run into a computerized number that indicates how many "points" he has achieved, so that the kinetic experience becomes translated into the stillness of numbers. The experience of health, its moving principle, is diminished. It is translated into dead data that, ironically, seems to reassure us more than the experience of health itself....
There are moments in which all of us experience the harmony of the movement we call life. These are transcendent or "peak" experiences in which we may forget not only our self-as-object, but the world-as object, becoming one with the experience itself. Space and time are perceived at such moments in nonordinary ways. Spatially, we cease to distinguish ourselves as floating in a sea of space adrift with other objects; and temporally, time ceases to flow in a linear way. These are moments of implicate awareness.
These are also times of health, in the sense that they are experiences of perfect harmony. Yet these moments invariably change, and as they do our attention is drawn to the nonharmonious events that follow. To some of these ensuing events in life, if they are sufficiently disruptive, we attach the term "disease." We make these distinctions just as naturally as we analyze a flowing Bach fugue into its separate notes after losing ourselves in the initial hearing of it. And our repetitious fixation °n such nonharmonious events creates our belief that they have some
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primary status, forgetting that we have abstracted them from the whole ness of the experience. The flowing harmony of experience becomes rarer as we carve those genuine moments into bit-events.
Yet health is a flowing movement. There is no benchmark to which we can refer to tell us when health leaves off and disease begins. Health and disease are the "moving principles" of each other. As Bohm implies: perceived as they are by conscious thought, and grounded as thought is in the totality of the implicate order that enfolds all, health and illness — how can we avoid the conclusion? — are one.
The experience of health and illness are, of course, not one and the same. The experience of them occurs in Bohm's explicate order, the world of the everyday that we habitually dissect into discrete objects and events. And as a consequence of partitioning this world into separate objects, we find that we partition it into immiscible experiences such as health and illness.
Is there a way to experientially touch the implicate order such that our own morbid preoccupations with health and disease are transcend ed? Can health and illness be experienced as irrelevancies? Almost certainly this is the case. The mystical literature is alive with instances of this sort. The mystics are consistent in asserting that ordinary considerations of health and illness, even of death, can be transcended. Frequently these statements are misinterpreted — for example, the mystic has "renounced" the body. This view is, I think, wrong, for the mystic has achieved a state characterized not by a repudiation of the flesh, but one in which he experiences the implicate union of opposites: body and nonbody, spirit and matter, health and illness, birth and death.
If we begin to experience the domain in which the issues of health and disease cease to appear as absolutes, our ordinary health strategies can be seen in a different perspective. The grim urgency of health care imperatives changes. Not that health, if neglected, won't evolve into illness, but that this evolution describes events only on the explicate level.
This is no endorsement of self-abuse and neglect of health. On the contrary, my suspicion is that an experiential understanding of the relativity of health and disease will lead to an increasing respect for one's material body, and that a fuller flowering of health will ensue. To transcend health care, to experience health as irrelevant, is not to neglect it. It is rather to regard all matter, including one's physical body, as alive
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and beyond health, grounded with conscious thought in the implicate domain. Rather than engendering an abusive disregard for the flesh, this point of view is more likely to promote sound health care — but not out of a fear of dissolution and death, but from respect born of an awareness (as Bohm states) that death is a mere abstraction, and that all is alive.
If Bohm's proposals for an implicate and explicate order are correct, it is clear that the efforts of modem medicine are wide of the mark. They focus only on the reality of the explicate order, the realm of our habitation, where the world is one of separate objects and events. The implicate domain, where the very meaning of health, disease, and death radically changes, is currently of no concern to medicine. The totality that enfolds everything is ignored....
How could medicine redirect its course? Instead of "keeping the parts running" ("explicate therapy"), how would it implement an "implicate therapy"?
I do not believe the task is a hopeless one. Indeed, there are indications of an emerging paradigm in medicine that will foster an experiential awareness of the implicate order. These new methodologies have as their foundation this underlying understanding: mind and body are intrinsically united, and consciousness is the fulcrum of health.
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From Larry Dossey, Space, Time and Medicine,
Shambhala Publications, Boulder, Colorado 80302, U.S.A.
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David Bohm and his concepts of
the "implicate and explicate orders,"
and of the "holoverse"
David Bohm was an associate of Einstein and later Professor of Theoretical Physics at Birbeck College of the University of London. He is regarded as one of the pre-eminent theoretical physicists of the 20th century.
Bohm maintains that the information of the entire universe is contained in each of its parts. There is, he says, a stunning example of this principle in photography: the hologram (literally, "whole message"). A hologram is a specially constructed image which, when illuminated by a laser beam, seems eerily suspended in three dimensional space. The most incredible feature of holograms is that any piece of it, if illuminated with coherent light, provides an image of the entire hologram. The information of the whole is contained in each part. This principle, says Bohm, extends to the universe at large.
Since Bohm frequently resorts to the holographic analogy, a brief description of the process will be given. The mathematical theory underlying holograms was developed initially in the 1940s by Nobel physicist Dennis Gabor. When Gabor initially proposed the possibility, holograms could not actually be constructed — this had to await the invention of the laser twenty years later.
Holograms are made using a kind of lenseless photography. Coherent light — light whose waves are approximately of the same frequency — is required. This light, such as from a laser, is passed through a half-silvered mirror. The mirror allows the passage of some of it onto a photographic plate, but reflects part of it onto the object which is to be "photographed." The object also reflects the coherent light beam onto the photographic plate; at which point the reflected beam collides with the beam passing through the half-silvered mirror. When the two "wave fronts" of light meet, they "interfere" with each other, creating an "interference pattern." It is this pattern that is recorded on the photographic plate as a hologram.
Now the truly unique feature of holograms emerges. If a beam of coherent light is passed through the photographic plate, the observer on the far side of the plate sees a striking three-dimensional "picture" of the original object suspended in space. And what is also remarkable is that if any piece of the hologram is illuminated with coherent light, the same phenomenon occurs. To be sure, the smaller the piece the "fuzzier" the resulting image, and the larger the portion the more detailed the image becomes; but the entire representation of
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the original object is contained in each portion of the hologram.
Bohm proposes that the universe is constructed on the same principles as the hologram. His theory rests on concepts that flow from modern physics. In the modem physical view the world is not assembled from individual bits, but is seen as an indivisible whole. In modern physics the old classical view of "bit pieces and building blocks" has given way to the concept of pattern, process, and interrelatedness.
The aspect of the world that we ordinarily perceive (the explicate order) is that of isolated parts, however. To us, things do seem disconnected and unrelated. Yet this is an illusion and a distortion of the underlying behind-the-scene oneness and unity, which is an intrinsic quality of the world.
This unity, says Bohm, is "enfolded" into the universe. It is an expression of an implicit order — or, as Bohm says, an "implicate" order. How is this order enfolded into the world? In ways already described by physics: through electromagnetic waves, sound waves, electron beams, and in other numerous forms of movement. The behaviour of all of these forms of movement constitute the implicate order in nature, and in order to emphasize its unbroken wholeness, Bohm states that what "carries" the implicate order is the "holomovement" — which is itself an undivided totality.
For Bohm, order and unity are spread throughout the universe in a way which escapes our senses. They are part of an implicate order which, although hidden from us, constitutes a fundamental aspect of reality. In the same way that order and organization are spread throughout the hologram, each part of the universe contains enough information to reconstitute the whole. The form and structure of the entire world is enfolded within each part.
It is important not to underestimate the seriousness intended in Bohm's descriptions. For many working physicists these concepts are inescapable conclusions that flow from quantum mechanics and relativity. They are not mere poetic or metaphorical musings about how the world behaves.
It is crucial, too, to appreciate the scope of these implications. We frequently assume that quantum physics applies only to the diminutive realm of nature — electrons, protons, etc; and that relativity has only to do with massive objects of cosmic proportions — stars, galaxies, nebulae, etc. But Bohm's contention is that we are squarely in the middle of these phenomena. He says: Ultimately, the entire universe (with all its "particles", including those constituting human beings, their laboratories, observing instruments, etc.) has to be understood as a single undivided whole, in which analysis into separately and independently existent parts has no fundamental status."
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Extracts from Larry Dossey, Space, Time and Medicine
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Health and the Implicate Order
Traditional View
Implicate View
1. The sensory world of objects and events is primary.
1. The sensory world of objects and events is. not primary. They belong to the explicate order which is grounded, or enfolded, in an underlying indivisible totality, the implicate order.
2. Health is the absence of disease.
2. Health is not the mere absence of disease, but is the. manifestation of the harmonious interaction of all apparent parts that inhabit the explicate domain.
3. Health and disease are absolutes and are irreconcilable opposites.
3. Health and disease are not irreconcilable opposites. They are the "moving principles" of each other
4. All living matter is potentially dead. Everything awaits decay.
4. All matter belongs to the implicate order, where everything is alive. "What we call dead is an abstraction" (Bohm)
5. Life is characterized by movement, and death by stasis.
5. The implicate order enfolds all, and is flux;
thus, both life and death are movement. Nothing is static.
6. Health can be conceptualized as proper function of body parts.
6. "Parts" exist only in the explicate domain. Therefore, health transcends the function of parts, since all parts, which consist of matter, are ultimately enfolded in the implicate order, and thus consist of an indivisible whole.
7. The focus of health care is on the physical body. Consciousness is a secondary and irrelevant factor
7. Both matter and consciousness are enfolded in the implicate order, where all things are one. Thus, all matter is to some degree conscious. Health care cannot, therefore, ignore conscious ness. To focus on matter is to focus on consciousness
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8. Health can be expressed in terms of objective measurements — laboratory, tests, physical examinations, x-rays, etc.
8. All measurements refer to objects belonging to the explicate order, and are thus not primary They defy the unanalyzable wholeness of the underlying totality in which all material bodies are grounded. As such, all measurements are arbitrary and are poor indicators of health.
9. Health care focuses on individuals.
9. This is an arbitrary and illusory concern of the explicate domain. All matter is enfolded in the implicate order; thus, so too are all bodies. To focus health care on one person is to focus on all, since all bodies (all matter) comprise a totality in the implicate order.
10. Therapy primarily is' executed by mechanical means, by matter acting on matter, e.g., by medications and surgery.
10. Everything is alive. There is nothing in principle, therefore, preventing the use of consciousness as a primary form of therapeutic intervention at all levels of matter.
11. Health care is of un questioned value.
11. Insofar as traditional health care distorts the wholeness of the body by inappropriate concentration on function of mere body parts, it can be destructive. Health care, thus, is of qualified benefit, since it may create distortions in body awareness which may prove harmful and actually generate illness.
12. Transcendence of the concern about health is a mystical aberration usually leading to neglect and rejection of the body.
12. Transcendence of the concern about health may indeed lead to the view of health as irrelevant, but may also lead to an aware ness of the body as being materially alive at all levels. This awareness can generate a spiritual regard for the body, a self-identity with the matter comprising it, leading to an enhanced pattern of health care.
13 The ultimate goal of health care is to forestall disease and, thus, death.
13. Since death is an abstraction ("everything is alive") this is an inappropriate goal of health care.
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Characteristics of a Healthy Body
One
A healthy person enjoys simple food and is contented because he gets a satisfaction before eating to full capacity which would give a feeling of fullness and discomfort.
Equally so, the process of digestion will be a quiet one and the per son will be unaware of it.
The healthy skin should not emit an unpleasant smell as does that of a carnivorous animal. The skin should be moist, but not wet, should feel warm, be smooth to touch and have an elasticity.
The lung function should be voluntary and without any difficulty.
Sleep of a healthy person is soft, quiet and uninterrupted. On waking one feels cheerful, bright and contented.
Deep mental emotions cannot long oppress a healthy person, he recuperates quickly.
The healthy body is one of fine proportions.
All natural movements are free, unhindered and need no exertion nor tension.
A healthy feeling is one in which the person does not feel the presence of his body, its weight and-any part of it.
Even warmth all over the body, lightness of feeling, keen hunger, sound and restful sleep, clarity of mind, ability of the body to work, freedom from laziness, and timely elimination of filth are the signs of good health.
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From K.L. Sharma, Practical Nature Cure,
Nature Cure Publishing House
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Manuscript page of Charaka Samhita, early Indian medical text
TWO
An individual is supposed to be healthy if he is free of any disease. He should not have any type of pain. His colour and texture of the skin should be muscular, the body-parts proportionate, and sturdy. He should have strength. His digestive power should be well developed. It is to be judged by the feeling of hunger, and the food which is taken in is to be digested so that at appropriate hours of the day he feels hungry and thirsty. He should have sound sleep and after sleep should feel buoyant and fresh. The excretion of urine and stool should be smooth and at appropriate hours. There should be unpolluted and pure semen in the body. Over and above he should experience perfect coordination of mind, intelligence and body organs. These are considered the important symptoms of the healthy individual.
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From S.H. Deshpande, Physical Education in Ancient India
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One concept that has become quite significant in recent times is that of "fitness". It appears to be the sum total of many factors blended into one central-qualitative condition which is more than mere "well-being". These factors are mostly physical and correspond to precise capabilities of the body such as cardiovascular endurance,1 muscular strength and endurance,2 flexibility3 and body composition4 (rapport between lean body masse and fat mass in the body). When all these components of physical fitness are positive in a person, that person is declared fit, a physical state which usually also brings along a feeling of well-being and energetic youthfulness.
Modem human beings, everywhere in the world, are becoming more and more preoccupied with their bodies. Lot of resources and energy are spent to try to make the body as beautiful and youthful as possible. Modem societies, particularly in the West but it is gaining ground every where, give a growing importance to physical appearance. It is an ambiguous development as it too often leads to an obsessive and superficial preoccupation with only appearance and there is a risk that the crucial sense of wholeness of the being is lost. At the same time, the multiplication of experiments and researches towards the best ways to develop, beautify and strengthen the human body is likely to have a positive impact for the future of the human race, for its beauty and longevity.
Literature on fitness and related subjects is very vast and growing by the day. There are of course many faddist and misleading books on these subjects which often peddle so-called miraculous methods for body transformation, some of which are indeed dangerous, but it is also not so difficult to find good books with sensible advices on exercises, diet, etc. Our purpose here is not to go into any detail of particular methods but to briefly present a few commonly recognized points about fitness.
The first and—we believe—the most important is about exercise: human beings are yet animals and they are meant to move. Lack of exercise is probably the greatest negative factor with regard to fitness.
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Recent studies have proved that whoever exercises is likely to live longer that a sedentary person. Fat or even nearly obese people who exercise are often fitter than lean sedentary people. So exercise is crucial to fitness. Of course, if one aims at being very fit in all categories as described above, it would mean a lot of exercise on a daily basis. But for basic health, longevity and reasonable fitness, moderate exercise is enough, provided it is regular (minimum of three times a week) and sufficiently durable (between half an hour and one hour depending of the intensity of the exercise). Beyond these very basic notions there are many variations, types of exercises (aerobic or anaerobic exercises, strength exercises, flexibility exercises, etc.). It is for each person to find what is most suitable to his or her temperament, life circumstances, environment, age, body condition, etc. but exercise is a must to attain a reasonable level of fitness.
The second most important factor is of course diet. Top athletes know this very well and their diet is usually very much controlled particularly when they take part in competition. Physical fitness depends to a great extent on an appropriate diet, which will vary from individual to individual, but also according to climate, cultural background, habits, etc., yet there seems to exist by far and large a consensus among most nutritional experts about a few basic principles of what constitutes a good diet. First of all, food should be wholesome, as natural, varied and fresh as possible, not refined in ways that eliminate the nutritious elements, with a good balance between cooked food and raw food. Fruits, vegetables and whole cereals and grains should form the main part of the diet to which can be added in moderation by non-vegetarians fish, eggs and lean meat or poultry. Fat and sugar intake should be moderate.
Relaxation and rest are other factors the importance of which should not be underestimated in the quest for fitness. Stress can make people sick, therefore the ability to generally maintain a relaxed and positive attitude in life must surely contribute to fitness. Similarly, good sleep is crucial for a balanced life but, unfortunately, sleep deprivation is a growing menace in our fast modem societies, particularly with children whose appetite for television conflicts with their often heavy school schedules.
We have only indicated the most obvious steps in the search for fit ness. Ultimately, it is for each one to find his or her own way towards this profound harmony in which body and mind beautifully support each other to reach higher and higher levels of accomplishment.
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Cardiovascular endurance: It is defined as the ability of heart, lungs and blood vessels to provide enough oxygen and nutrients to allow sustained exercise.
Muscular strength and endurance: The capacity of muscles to generate force and sustain the effort.
Flexibility: The ability of joints to move freely and with the fall range of motion.
Body composition: The proportion between lean body mass and fat mass. (Women's bodies have a greater proportion of fat than men's. Levels from. 19 to 24% fat mass for women depending on their age are considered good whereas it would be 7 to 16% for men.)
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We all sleep: infants and children more than adolescents, adolescents more than adults, and some adults more than others. But a periodic alternation of sleep with wakefulness is universal, and suggests that sleep fulfils a basic biological need of the organism. On average, human beings spend one third of their lives in sleep.
What happens in sleep is that our consciousness withdraws from the field of its waking experience; it is supposed to be resting, suspended or in abeyance, but that is a superficial view of the matter. What is in abeyance is the waking activities, what is at rest is the surface mind and the normal conscious action of the bodily part of us; but the inner consciousness is not suspended, it enters into new inner activities, only a part of which, a part happening or recorded in something of us that is near to the surface, we remember. There is maintained in sleep, thus near the surface, an obscure subconscious element which is a receptacle or passage for our dream experiences, and itself also a dream-builder. After a time this subconscious activity appears to sink back into complete inconscience we speak of this state as deep dreamless sleep; thence we emerge again into the dream-shallows or return to the waking surface.
But in fact, in what we call dreamless sleep, we go into a profounder and denser layer of the subconscient, a state too involved, too immersed or too obscure, dull and heavy to bring to the surface its structures, and we are dreaming there but unable to grasp or retain these more obscure dream figures. However, it is possible to become wholly conscious in sleep; it is found that then we are aware of ourselves passing from state after state of consciousness to a brief period of luminous and peaceful dreamless rest, which is the true restorer of the energies of the waking nature, and then returning by the same way to the waking consciousness.
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The Nature of Sleep: the Scientific Viewpoint
In order to try to understand sleep, scientists use an apparatus known as an electroencephalogram (EEG). In sleep experiments, electrodes attached to a sleeper's head are connected to this machine which then records brain wave patterns. Devices are also attached to the sleeper to record eye movements, heart rate, temperature, and so forth. From thousands of laboratory experiments over the years, scientists have concluded that there are two principal kinds of sleep, and that a person normally moves from one to another at 90-minute intervals throughout the night.
When we first go to bed, we fall into slow-wave sleep, so named for the fact that brain waves slow down. We gradually drift into a quiet state in which both temperature and pulse rate drop. Subjects awakened from this stage of sleep seldom report dreams. Then, approximately 90 minutes after falling asleep, the blood pressure, pulse and breathing become irregular. The ears are tuned for hearing and the eyes dart back and forth. This is REM (for rapid eye movement) sleep, also known as paradoxical sleep because it is unlike the popular idea of sleep as a quiet state. The brain is as active as when awake, and the brainwaves resemble those emitted in the daytime. Subjects awakened from paradoxical or REM sleep almost always report dreams. About 25 percent of the night is spent in this kind of sleep.
Another interesting — and paradoxical — observation about REM sleep is that although the brain and body appear to be as highly aroused and active as during the waking state, subjects awakened from this stage report that they were very deeply asleep. And the sleeper is also much less aware of external stimuli during REM sleep. Scientists interpret this finding as follows. When we are attentive to something, we are less likely to be distracted by any noise or movement around us than might otherwise be the case. The child reading with avid interest may not hear his mother calling. In other words, insensitivity to external stimulation is not always indicative of mental lethargy; to the contrary, it may reflect a high degree of attentiveness.
Narcolepsy, Insomnia and Sleep Deprivation
Pity the poor narcoleptic. He is likely to fall asleep at the peak moment of a film, in the midst of a conversation, while driving a car. He suffers from narcolepsy, a disorder in which the victim is subject to
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sudden, uncontrollable attacks of sleep lasting anywhere from five to twenty minutes. Narcoleptics may have other symptoms, too. They sometimes lose muscle tone suddenly and fall down, and in the few moments between waking and sleeping, they may hallucinate or experience brief paralysis. The cause of narcolepsy is not understood by conventional science, though world literature has several vivid victims of this disorder, from Kumbhakarna, the giant brother of Ravana in the Ramayana, to Rip Van Winkle.
While the narcoleptic cannot stay awake, the insomniac cannot fall asleep. Among the commonest reasons for insomnia are anxiety and depression. Physical ailments can also make it difficult to sleep as can abuse of common drugs that affect the brain. Over the long run, sleeping pills, especially barbiturates, are apt to make insomnia worse rather than better. There are no pills that foster normal sleep. Some pills abolish the deepest stages of REM sleep, and most suppress much-needed REM sleep.
Then there are those who simply do not need to sleep as much as most people. Napoleon and Winston Churchill are famous examples. Churchill always insisted on an afternoon "siesta" of about one hour, but then would work until two or even three in the morning, only to rise again by six a.m. ready for more intensive work.
Perhaps no one has described the anguish of the insomniac as vividly and poetically as Shakespeare's King Henry V
O Sleep, O gentle Sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather. Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch
A watch-case of a common 'larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
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Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them
With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
(King Henry IV, 2, III, i.4-31.)
Insomnia is not considered an illness, and most insomniacs are able to live normal lives. However, the effects of prolonged sleep deprivation are well known: a loss of efficiency in mental and physical functioning, irritability, and tendencies toward perceptual distortions and ideational confusion. When laboratory animals have been deprived of sleep, they die after ten sleepless days.
The American aviator Charles Lindbergh describes a remarkable experience brought on by sleep deprivation during his record-breaking flight across the Atlantic:
"On May 20, 1927, after months of concentrated effort, frustration, and the threat of probable failure, I flew from New York to Paris in a single-cockpit, single-engine mono plane christened Spirit of St. Louis. I had spent twenty three hours without sleep when I took off, and obviously there would be no opportunity to sleep before I landed. My lack of sleep turned out to be the most-difficult and dangerous factor of the flight, but it resulted in an inner experience that seemed to penetrate beyond mortality.
"There comes a point when the body's demand for sleep is harder to endure than any other pain I have encountered, when it results in a state of semiconsciousness in which an
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awareness exists that is less acute but apparently more universal than that of the normal mind. Before my flight was halfway finished, I found that I could not force myself to stay awake through will power. The rational mind I had previously known and relied upon had less and less effect on my body's responses. There were lengthening periods when it even lost the knowledge of its own existence, when an intelligence without the need for reason had replaced it. "Over and over again on the second day of my flight, I would return to mental alertness sufficiently to realize that I had been flying while I was neither asleep nor awake. My eyes had been open. I had responded to my instruments' indications and held generally to compass course, but I had lost sense of circumstance and time. During immeasurable periods, I seemed to extend outside my plane and body, independent of worldly values, appreciative of beauty, form, and colour without depending upon my eyes. It was an experience in which both the intellectual and sensate were replaced by what might be termed a matterless awareness. It was the only occasion in my life when I saw and con versed with ghosts.
"They appeared suddenly in the tail of the fuselage while I was flying through fog. I saw them clearly although my eyes were staring straight ahead. Transparent, mistlike, with semihuman form, they moved in and out through the fabric walls at will. One or two of them would come for ward to converse with me and then rejoin the group behind. I can still see those phantoms clearly in memory, but after I landed at Paris I could not remember a single word they said."
The following words of The Mother are very instructive:
"To sleep well one must learn how to sleep. If one is physically tired, it is better not to go to sleep immediately, otherwise one falls into the inconscient. If one is very tired, one must stretch out on the bed, relax, loosen all the nerves one after another until one becomes like a rumpled cloth in
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one's bed, as though one had neither bones nor muscles. When one has done that, the same thing must be done in the mind. Relax, do not concentrate on any idea or try to solve a problem or ruminate on impressions, sensations or emotions you had during the day. All that must be allowed to drop off quietly; one gives oneself up, one is indeed like a rag. When you have succeeded in doing this, there is always a little flame there — that flame never goes out and you become conscious of it when you have managed this relaxation. And all of a sudden this little flame rises slowly into an aspiration for the divine life, the truth, the consciousness of the Divine, the union with the inner being, it goes higher and higher, it rises, rises, like that, very gently. Then everything gathers there, and if at that moment you fall asleep, you have the best sleep you could possibly have. If you do this carefully, you are sure to sleep, and also sure that instead of falling into a dark hole, you will sleep in light, and when you get up in the morning, you will be fresh, fit, content, happy and full of energy for the day."
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There is a story told in the East of two fakirs who had spent years in seclusion studying yoga, having learned extraordinary feats of physical and mental control and mastery of their minds and bodies. Standing on the banks of the Ganges they fell into one another's company, and in the course of their conversation one of them happened to imply that he had developed the ability to do more miraculous things than most, probably including his companion.
The other fakir, a bit older and perhaps a bit wiser, rebuked him gently, wondering whether he might not be carried away by a moment's boastfulness. But his new found friend bristled with pride and volunteered to demonstrate what he could do. The older man agreed to this. "Go ahead," he said. The younger proceeded, "See the man across the river? I will make appear on a piece of paper in his hand the name of a friend whom he has long forgotten."
The older man smiled, "Is that really the sort of thing you do? That's nothing."
The younger fakir replied, now with some heat, "Oh, really! That's nothing? Well, please tell me, what sort of miraculous feats do you accomplish?"
The first fakir looked at him calmly and his eyes twinkled, "I eat when I'm hungry and drink when I'm thirsty."
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There is no real consensus today, if one is to look in the bewildering array of theories and methods of nutrition, about how one should nourish one's body. To add to the confusion, the food industries, caught in stiff competition between national companies or multinationals, have been invaded by the strangling world of publicity. Consequently, the public is inundated with messages about food and foodstuffs which have usually little to do with truth, but which are calculated to kindle as many desires as possible.
As a result, the consciousness of the true needs of the body is obscured. In the affluent or relatively well-off classes of modern societies, mothers are being besieged by their children to get the latest fancy food items. Confusing and contradictory theories about nutrition combined with the cacophony of titillating messages all around have contributed to a lowering of the clear and simple consciousness about food.
There are in our modern times some quite divergent views of what constitutes a good diet. One great divide is between vegetarians and non-vegetarians. Further, vegetarians differ with "vegetarians" about animal products such as milk, eggs, butter, etc. Vegetarians will not take any animal products. Some nutritionists have argued that man belonging generally to the larger species of apes should have an apelike diet, consisting mostly of fruits and nuts, i.e., whatever can be found on trees. The followers of the Macrobiotic system, on the contrary, think that diet should consist mostly of grains and roots. An extreme diet system advocates a totally raw diet, banishing cooking and any food processing altogether. As a result of these conflicting views there is — particularly in the West but now growing everywhere — an enormous and bewildering amount of books on nutrition and diets, among which a good number are hardly serious, selling "diet packages" which can some times be harmful.
Maybe a practical truth is that one should try to find out experimentally one's own optimum diet. Whether one lives in the cold northern countries or in a hot tropical country would have a major impact on the type of diet which can be appropriate. And many more factors: age, type of body, type of activity, psychological make-up, family situation, budgetary considerations, state of health, seasonal variations and climate. These are only some of the main variables which constitute the essential background of an experiential diet.
Deeper aspirations can also influence the choice of diet. If one's main concern is, for instance,
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to make the body a fit servant in the pursuit of a higher truth of oneself, one would select from among many possible food items those most useful in promoting qualities such as endurance, strength, agility and lightness which are most necessary in serious spiritual seeking.
Mindset and psychological circumstances might also be much more important in the process of nutrition than generally acknowledged. There is a striking story which serves as a good illustration of the importance of the body/mind relations. It is not about human beings but about rabbits, and that makes it, we feel, even more remarkable. In a laboratory experiment, rabbits were given foods that induce high rise of cholesterol in the blood, in order to study the potential of various corrective medicines. After a while, it was noticed that a group of rabbits, although receiving exactly the same diet, were showing dramatically less increase of cholesterol in their blood. After an in-depth enquiry, it was discovered that one of the attendants giving food to the rabbits had the habit of patting and caressing his rabbits while feeding them. Closely monitored repeat experiments showed that indeed these specific actions of the attendant were responsible for the surprising fact that these rabbits suffered much less negative effects from the same harmful diet than the other rabbits.
If rabbits can be that sensitive to love and care, what of human beings? From time immemorial, all great traditions have insisted on the importance to be given to the preparation and serving of food. And every mother in the world knows instinctively what it means to feed children. Nourishment must be of the total being, at the most material level but also at subtler and subtler levels of the being. The material base of the food must be proper, but so must be many other circumstances around it which contribute to the total care of the body. Wholesome character of the food, beauty in presentation, subtle art of enhancement of flavours and proper combinations and, above all, an atmosphere of calm, love and care are all important parts of the "ceremony" of serving food.
One may dream of one day further along in the evolutionary future when much more refined human beings would be sufficiently fed merely by the essences of food, or else, when breath or "prana", so termed in the Sanskrit, may suffice to provide strength and energy to subtler but still material bodies. This day might come later but for us, today, the urgency remains of a proper approach to nutrition, so that our bodies
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are maintained in a peak condition of health and longevity.
The excerpts that we are presenting below, a brief hut clear exposition of the main principles of nutrition in Ayurveda and their crucial importance to health and healing, come from a book called Diet and Nutrition: A Holistic Approach by Rudolph Ballentine, M.D. Mr. Ballantine's presentation, we feel, brings out the depth of a very ancient knowledge in the art of nutrition in a field that suffers from our modern overabundance of theories, some of which seem hardly more than fashionable prescriptions. We hope the brief extracts presented here may induce the reader to a deeper study of nutrition as a very' important aspect in the complex domain of human life.
We are also giving excerpts of a small book called The Grape Cure. This is the story of a man who, after many unsuccessful attempts at his treatment, was considered terminally ill. One day he came across the description of a cure of a severe illness through eating grapes only for a long period. Having nothing to lose, he tried this method and in a few weeks he achieved the seemingly impossible feat of curing himself. We felt it useful to present this story as we believe that it demonstrates the power of nutrition on the body. If bodies can be cured by only taking the same specific food over a long period, the importance of nutrition to health cannot be exaggerated.
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In the ancient medical system of India, we find what is one of the oldest and most time-tested approaches to nutrition. Its science of food and diet is an integral part of a philosophy of man, his consciousness and his relation to the universe. The result is an approach to diet that is unsurpassed both in its profundity and sophistication as well as in its practicality and simplicity. Here the selection and preparation of food is seen as inseparable from the treatment of disease and the cultivation of vibrant health. Both these goals are part of traditional Indian medicine.
The traditional system of Indian medicine is called Ayurveda. Ayur means "life" and veda means "science," so Ayurveda means "the Science of Life." It comprises a body of medical tradition that extends back at least several thousands of years. Moreover, it has continued to be practiced without interruption during this period of time, its present form having been shaped primarily by the writers Charaka, Shushruta and Vag Bhata prior to 500 B.C. It is thought that this codification rep resents a transfer of oral tradition into written, and it is considered likely by historians that the spoken tradition dates back much further. The form and organization given to the Ayurvedic system of medicine by Charaka and Shushruta has persisted, and these textbooks are still taught and used by medical students in the schools of traditional medicine throughout India today.
Through its long history, it would appear that Ayurveda witnessed the rise and fall of many schools of therapy ranging from herbal medicine to physical therapy and massage, surgery, psychiatry, the use of meditation, mantra and many other treatment modalities. Each of these apparently was integrated into the physician's practice, and the conceptual scheme expanded to accommodate them. As a result, the school of Ayurveda has a breadth and depth that could be unparalleled in the history of medical science. This also made it possible for Ayurvedic physicians, or vaidyas, to develop, over thousands of years, an extremely
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complex and complete science of haematology and pharmacology. Long before we discovered their use in the West, traditional Indian physicians were using such preparations as reserpine to lower blood pressure and calm nerves, cardiac glycosides similar to digitalis to regulate the rhythm of the heart, and fungal preparations similar to penicillin as antibiotics. Their practice of surgery was astonishingly advanced for the time, and as early as 1,200 years ago, there are accounts of successful plastic surgery such as the replacement of ears and noses that had been severed in battle. Moreover, even in ancient times, the treatment of mental illness was advanced, and the treatment of physical disorders often involved definite mental, psychotherapeutic and meditative techniques. In fact, perhaps the one thing that can be said most clearly about Ayurveda is that it admits no distinction between mind and body, and that it provides one of the most comprehensive schemata for understanding psychosomatic interaction.
The science of nutrition in Ayurveda is vast and comprehensive and is not separated from pharmacology. Since no distinction is admitted between foods and drugs, herbal and mineral substances that are used in the preparation of food are thought to be equally important medicinally as those that are given separately.
Tridosha
Those few people who are familiar with the name of Ayurveda know that it is often taken to be synonymous with the concept of tridosha. Tridosha is that conceptual framework which forms the heart of Ayurvedic medicine, and a proper understanding of its meaning has been greatly hindered by this fact since most Western students tend to assume that the meanings of the terms used in tridosha are equivalent to the "humors" of Greek and medieval European medical thought. Though the "bile," "wind" and "phlegm" of the Europeans are apparently descendants of the ancient Indian concepts, they were (and are) too often corrupted by overly literal interpretation.
Tridosha is essentially a system of conceptualizing mind, body and their interaction in dynamic terms that cut across the usual categories of Western thought. Tridosha means the system of "three doshas." The doshas are dynamic factors of vectors whose interaction produces that complex known as the psychosomatic entity, or person. The doshas are called Vata, Pitta and Kapha. In Sanskrit, Kapha signifies all that about
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the psychosomatic complex which is heavy, dense, gross, sluggish, coarse and tending toward the material. Pitta indicates that aspect of the total system which is hot, energetic, assertive, capable of doing work and having the property of fire. Vata, the last aspect of the psycho-physiological system, represents that which is least tangible, least perceptible, most subtle, most active, erratic and unpredictable. For this reason, it is often translated "wind". It is the wind which we cannot see, which moves in such subtle and erratic ways, yet which has the power to generate electricity, move ships or destroy cities.
Pitta is most often translated as fire, since in the natural world it is the flame which most closely corresponds to this aspect of the psycho somatic system. The flame is hot, quick, angry, aggressive, yet full of warmth, energy and the ability to act in the world. The normal "home" of this fire in the Ayurvedic system is the "solar plexus" whose name reflects the ancient recognition that the organs of digestion were the primary site where fuel is broken down and the whole process of energy production begins and is to a great extent regulated. Modem physiologists acknowledge that a significant amount of energy may be produced during the digestion and assimilation of foods.
Kapha is difficult to translate. It designates that aspect of the system which is most material. Sometimes it is connected with the earth or water since these are the material, tangible, grosser aspects of the universe. In the context of medicine, Kapha is often translated as "mucus," and as we noted earlier, there seems to be some etymological relation ship between the English cough and the Sanskrit Kaph, both of which are connected with the accumulation of mucus in the respiratory system. In a similar way, Pitta is often translated (though perhaps regrettably so) as "bile" since it is bile which is the identifiable fluid most closely connected to the digestive processes of the body. Vata's translation as "wind" is taken in the context of physiology to mean gas in the intestinal tract or elsewhere in the body. This is, of course, a limited aspect of its meaning, and the literal translation of the doshas as mucus or phlegm, bile and wind is clearly a misinterpretation of their intended significance.
Tridosha can perhaps be most aptly understood in the context of Western science if its derivation is likened to a process of factor analysis: if we can imagine the ancient physicians working primarily on the basis of empirical evidence gathered through self-scrutiny, careful
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clinical experience and keen observation, if we can imagine their trying to analyze the multiplicity of psychological, emotional, mental, spiritual and physical phenomena into manageable terms, then we might see that their efforts amounted to something quite similar to what a computer does to a pile of data when it carries out a factor analysis. The reduction of the multiple variables into functionally-grouped categories not only brings order out of the chaos, but brings an order which, is most meaningful and revealing of the basic nature of the system being studied. This "factor analysis" carried out by the traditional physicians of India apparently revealed three major functional "forces" or groupings involved in the psychosomatic system, and these were designated as the doshas (that is, three main categories as far as understanding and dealing with disease).
It is through examining and evaluating in each patient the predominant activity, quality and imbalances in these three functional entities that the physician arrives at a conceptualization of the disease process. For instance, in some diseases Pitta might be greatly accentuated while Kapha is normal and Vata is deficient. Diagnosis is more complex than this, of course, since any one, any two, or all three of the doshas may be either accentuated, vitiated (i.e. irregularly or unevenly active), or decreased. The various combinations are many.
Of course, the use of the conceptual scheme is not limited to dealing with "disease". It is not necessary that one be disabled, nor that he apply to a physician for help to avail himself of the insights that tri dosha can provide. In fact, the Ayurvedic writings not only clarify diseases and functional disorders through use of tridosha, they also conceptualize the "normal" person in these terms. Though the ideal situation is one where the three doshas are in perfect harmony, such an ideal state rarely exists. Each person's makeup or constitution determines that he will tend to slip out of balance in certain characteristic ways, e.g., one may tend toward anger, volatileness and have a reputation as being "hot-headed". The red face, quick assertive manner and aggressive actions all suggest the "pittic" constitution. If there is, in addition, an erratic nature, an inconsistency and spaciness, then there is also an element of Vata involved. The person who is heavy, staid, unshakable, with perhaps a tendency toward lethargy and indifference, would be called kaphic.
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Tridosha and taste
Ayurvedic science is, as we have seen, experiential and practical. It is first and foremost a way of organizing one's experience. Therefore, it is not surprising that its methods for judging the properties of foods and naturally occurring medicines (herbs, spices, mineral substances, etc.) is simple and part of one's everyday experience. In fact, as mentioned before, the properties of food and medicines as conceptualized in Ayurveda can be deduced by their tastes in most cases. There we find the sense of taste put in a different perspective: it has evolved to help us apprehend the dynamic qualities of foods so that we can judge their effect on us. Whether it is the vaidya in his pharmacy or the cook in his kitchen, one of the most important guides to the properties of food or drug is its taste.
Taste reflects certain qualities in the food — its ability to modify certain principles (doshas) — therefore one can know from the taste of the substance how it will affect the dynamic equilibrium of the body mind complex. ... The Ayurvedic pharmacology of taste is essentially a way of putting into formal terms the intuitive and experiential sense of what is right and proper to eat at any moment.
A person who is overweight, for example, and who is dull and heavy and lethargic, will find that he feels livelier, more active, and has less tendency to gain weight if his foods are predominantly pungent and bitter. His tendency, however, is likely to be the opposite of that since it is often this which has led him to over indulge in sweet foods in the first place. By contrast, a person who is very nervous, shaky, "spaced out," flighty and unable to "keep his feet on the ground," should not take a preponderance of bitter substances. If he does, he will tend to become even "spacier," and may even lose contact with reality. Such a person, the typical ectomorphic, intellectual, dreamy, paranoid recluse can usually benefit from some starchy, fattening food. This is the secret, perhaps, of much of the success of the macrobiotic diet which emphasizes whole grains, especially rice. Among the wandering youth of the mid and late 1960's, the "macrobiotic" diet gained quite a reputation. A steady diet of predominantly brown rice is often very settling, bringing the "spaced out" veteran of "mind-expanding" drugs down-to-earth and helping him feel more in touch with the world around him. Centres offering assistance based on such dietary practices have sometimes been dramatically helpful. Foods which are hot and spicy stimulate digestive fire,
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and it is thus that traditional cooks the world over add chilis and pungent spices to their bean recipes so that the difficult-to-digest legume can be handled better and will not cause so much gas. The kashaya or astringent substances are a special case. Astringency is almost more of a sensation than a taste, strictly speaking. It is a drawing or pulling together, and according to Ayurvedic thought, this means that a cool, dry contraction is produced. Such a dynamic effect is useful where there is a preponderance of watery Kapha. Any discharge or flow from the body will be reduced by this, thus the universal use of astringent compounds in such cases from the American Indians' blackberry root or oak bark tea for diarrhoea to the current use of alum compounds in underarm anti-perspirants.
The appreciation of the taste-related properties allows one to be less crude in his understanding of the effects of foods. For example, before ripening, the banana has a subtle but distinct astringency. When properly cooked, it is therefore useful in such disorders as diarrhoea and runny, drippy colds. When the banana ripens, however, it loses its astringent taste and becomes quite sweet. At that point the drying and "drawing closed" effect is lost and increasingly replaced by its opposite, so that banana (which to most people means ripe banana) is notoriously "mucus forming."
There are other gunas or properties that food contains besides simply that of taste or rasa. Another is, for example, virya, which means the effect that the food has on the temperature of the body — does it create heat or does it make one cold? For instance, sesame seeds tend to generate heat in the body while mung beans tend to do the opposite. This is despite the fact, it should be noted, that both contain roughly similar quantities of protein, carbohydrate and fat. Here we are dealing with a subtler system of analysis than the laboratory method of simply determining the quantities of known nutrients. There is something about the non-nutritional compounds or properties of the sesame seed that has a specifically warming effect on the body and something about the mung bean that is the opposite.
Meats were classified in that way too by the ancients, and whereas most kinds of fish will tend to produce warmth, other meats do not seem to. Of course most spices, with the exception of cloves, are heat producing, while fruits are generally cooling though here, too, there are exceptions. In both the tropical plains of India and the icy Himalayan
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slopes, heating or air-conditioning are still used very little. The traditional wisdom about virya is therefore adhered to carefully. A heating (ushna) food taken in the hot season can produce considerable discomfort. Sesame confections, for example, cannot be found in Indian sweet shops during the warm months, whereas in the winter they are especially favoured by those who suffer from the cold.
Altogether, there are twenty-two pairs of gunas, like heat-producing (ushna) versus cold-producing (shita). The more important of these are lightness versus heaviness and oiliness versus dryness. Among beans, for example, mung beans are considered light (laghu) and easy to digest, whereas kidney beans are heavy (guru). Both, however have the quality of dryness (rooksh). Urad dahl, on the other hand, another kind of legume, is considered oily or unctuous (snigdha), the opposite of dry.
Whether a food is drying (rooksh) or oily (unctuous or snigdha) is of some practical importance. Those who have problems with dry, hard bowel movements may find they have been eating foods that were pre dominantly rooksh. An increase of foods that are snigdha such as fats, ripe bananas, coconut, sugar and salt, can correct this. Similarly, one who is having a runny nose and eyes can often greatly relieve his discomfort by temporarily limiting his diet to more drying foods, herbs and seasonings like chick peas, honey or black pepper. The bajra chappati, made from the flour of a dark millet, is remarkable in its ability to dry up a drippy nose — especially in cool, damp weather.
Many of these properties are in line with common sense and do not come as a surprise because they are consonant with our experience. Most of the others follow logically from the principles of taste pharmacology. However, there is another set of properties which are not so apparent or logical. This is the "taste" (rasa) of the. food after it has undergone some process of digestion. This is called vipaka. For instance, most starchy foods after chewing, become sweet, and the post-digestion "taste" is sweet (madhura). But starchy foods tend to be classified as sweet (madhura) anyway, so the taste (rasa) is the same as the vipaka. Sometimes, however, this is not true, so that a predominantly starchy substance like mung beans, becomes pungent or kata after digestion. Thus the value of mung beans, for while they may be agree able in taste to those who prefer mild, sweetish foods, they will not be unduly fattening and actually help to stimulate the digestive fire.
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The pharmacologic use of spices and foods
An understanding of the doshas and their relationship to the taste and other properties of food are part and parcel of common knowledge and folk culture in India. Everyone educated in the traditional way under stands, at least to some extent, these basic concepts. Classically, the selection of foods from the table and the choice of things to cook are based on seasonal and other considerations with an understanding of how they affect the doshas and what sorts of foods would be appropriate.
An appreciation of tridosha and the science of taste pharmacology also explains much of the use of spices in Indian cooking. When the seasonings and spices are added to a food, they change its taste. Therefore they change its properties and the effect that it has on the body. For instance, rice with salt and pepper will have quite a different effect on the physiology than rice alone. Though in Western scientific terms it is said that the spice has little nutritional value, in Ayurvedic terms it has a very specific pharmacologic action, such that he whole processing of the food and the net effect on the body is changed.
It is perhaps for this reason that the average Indian can eat a pre dominantly starchy diet made up of rice, chapatti, potatoes and dahl with a madhura rasa (sweet taste) as long as he adds his spices —
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cumin, coriander, pepper, ginger, and so forth, which are predominantly katu or pungent with some bitter and astringent taste. They serve to balance the food and prevent it from having a fattening or kaphic effect. Of course, it is common sense, even to the Westerner, that seasoning a food so that it becomes hot and pungent decreases its mucus forming properties and "cleans out the sinuses."
During ancient times when the Ayurvedic scriptures were written, it seems that a more varied diet of fruit, vegetables, grains and wild and leafy greens was much more easily available. The population was less dense and there was more vegetation per person. At that time, it seems likely that the need for spices was less, and they seemed to have been used predominantly as medicine. But as the diet became increasingly domesticated and agricultural, and the population density greater, food became less varied and more starchy with a predominantly sweet taste (madhura rasa). It was then that the spices moved from the pharmacy into the kitchen, and their use became a daily necessity. Unfortunately, a very starchy diet sometimes leads to the heavy-handed use of the least expensive and most potent spices such as chili peppers. The result can be caustic, irritating and inflaming to the intestinal tract. In fact, the use of chilis, brought only a few hundred years ago from Mexico, might be regarded as a corruption of classical Indian cuisine. Many people have had tearful and burning experiences with so-called Indian food as a result of eating in East Indian restaurants. Actually, restaurants are not used by most people in India, and the preparation of food is carefully done at home. A mastery of subtle seasoning is the mark of a cultured and well-educated cook, and the judicious use of spices is considered a crucial part of turning out a meal that is not only nutritious but that can promote a gentle rebalancing of the system.
Because so little distinction is made between the pharmacy and the kitchen in traditional Indian culture, we find in Ayurvedic medical schools that pharmacology and cooking are taught as the same course. The culinary spices like cardamom, cumin, coriander, turmeric, etc. have always been an important part of the armaraentarium of tradition al physicians. Cardamom, for example, is an important cough remedy, and even today can be found in Western over-the-counter cough syrups. Moreover, many of the items which we regard as strictly foodstuffs are considered by the traditional physician to have important pharmacologic action. For instance, onions, honey, clarified butter, sesame seed oil,
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milk, many meats, etc., are ascribed very specific and important medicinal effects.
Milk is a laxative, as is honey. Ghee (clarified butter) promotes digestion as do most fats, which is in accord with research which has shown that full-fat soy flour is digested with less gas than the defatted preparation. One can easily compile a list of over a hundred plants which are used in India both as food and as medication. This is another reason why both foods and medicinal substances are subsumed under the term dravya, and why in the discussions of taste and of the proper ties of foods and medicines, so little distinction is made between the two. The same methods of preparation, processing, handling, and selection are applicable to the major part of this spectrum of substances. It is for such reasons, too, that cooking and the preparation of medicine can be taught at the same time. In fact, the Ayurvedic physician who would attempt to prescribe medication without seeing to the preparation of the meals taken during the course of the day by a patient would be considered a fool.
Even among the Ayurvedic physicians, the matter is regarded as extremely complex, and even the most extensively tested rules, evolved over thousands of years, like that of the taste pharmacology, are not always completely accurate. The properties of perhaps 80% of foods and medicinal-like herbs can be deduced according to their taste (rasa). Another 10% or 15% must be explained by what happens after digestion occurs (vipakha) and a few others by the virya or other gunas. For example, honey, which is sweet in taste, is converted upon digestion to a pungent (katu) substance. This means that after it is processed by the body, it is transformed so that it does not have the effect that most sweet substances do. It does not aggravate the tendency toward obesity, nor does it increase the formation of mucus. Thus, instead of being a kaphic food, it is one which stimulates pitta and has exactly the opposite effect of most sweet foods. Because it is transformed by the body into a pungent or "hot" substance, it helps one lose weight, stimulates body heat and tends to dry up mucus. For this reason, it is sometimes used along with milk or yogurt to reduce their mucus-forming tendencies. The Ayurvedic scriptures say that yogurt is an excellent food if it is taken with honey. On this basis it is also said that the diabetic can take honey without harm, whereas he should avoid sugar assiduously. Conventional modem medicine, by contrast, has tended to forbid honey
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to the diabetic on the rationale that it is a carbohydrate. Interestingly enough, however, honey contains primarily fructose which, as we have seen, is different from most sugars in that it does not require insulin for its metabolism. If taken in excess, however, honey can over stimulate and unbalance or disturb pitta, causing digestive problems that may be difficult to correct. For this reason, though it is an excellent food, one is counselled to take honey in proper measure (for most people more than two tablespoons a day is unwise).
All in all, there may be one food, herb, or spice in a thousand which falls into a special category which is called prabhava, meaning "it can't be explained!" This means that neither the taste, the virya, nor the vipaka can account for the effect that the food has on the body. In fact, these classifications are for convenience, simply a way of organizing the information that has been accumulated. Though they usually can be reasoned out and followed through, the designations were, and still are, derived empirically. That is, different foods were tried and their results (gunas) were catalogued, and thus they were designated a certain rasa, a certain virya or a certain vipaka. It is for this reason that the rasa (taste) sometimes cannot accurately predict the vipaka or the gunas (properties). Moreover, foods and plants not described in the ancient writings must be tested out today, as well as new varieties of the ancient plants or even those grown under vastly different conditions or on markedly different soils.
Ayurveda and the patterns of nature
The properties of the substance may be evident from the source of the food itself. For instance, the goat has the quality of being "dried up" and small. It also has a quickness, a lightness and a jumpiness that goes along with this. The ability of goat's milk to reduce diarrhoea and tighten the bowel movements is not surprising if one looks at the goat itself, whose feces are small and hard. The milk or meat of the water buffalo, however, stands in contrast. The water buffalo is an animal which is heavy, large, calm, quiet and slow to anger or-movement. Its feces are copious, loose and mushy. Its products are considered to be very good for people who are underweight, undernourished and nervous. It tends to calm them. In a similar way, the meat of certain birds is said, according to the traditional teachings, to be very good for heavy people. This is not as true, on the other hand, of those birds which are water dwellers.
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The world of nature and the predominance of wild fruits, vegetables, herbs and game provided the Ayurvedic physicians with a rich store of foods having a wide variety of very specific effects. By pre scribing food alone, along with a few herbal seasonings, they were able to have a great impact on a person's health and often reversed serious chronic diseases. Moreover their theoretical framework, their conceptual scheme, based on tridosha and a holistic approach to observing the world of nature around them, permitted them to benefit from the complexity of natural substances.
This is why in Ayurvedic nutrition, one can deal with milk in dimensions that are quite impossible from the point of view of Western nutrition. Though goat's milk can be said, through the laboratory analysis of Western nutritionalists, to contain a bit less butterfat and perhaps more protein than cow's milk, according to Ayurveda, its unique properties can be deduced from its taste, which is somewhat astringent (kashaya). Thus its tendency is to draw together, pull tight and cure diarrhoea. This would lead one to think that it would be very effective in reducing weight which it has been found from experience to do, while the milk of the water buffalo has the opposite effect which the difference in its taste as well as the nature of the two animals would lead one to expect.
Ayurvedic nutrition is based on the concept that for each food, whether it is meat, fish, vegetable, fruit or milk, there is an essence or energy state or quality that can be identified and formulated. It can be partially identified through its taste and partially through the other properties which it is observed to manifest. Partly it can be identified by the observation of the personality or role of the plant or animal as it participates in the overall ecological system. Finally the essence of the food's effects can be formulated by using tridosha, a conceptual system that allows the physician enough breadth and depth to express such a holistic understanding. It is tridosha which has given the Ayurvedic physician the capacity to express his understanding of food in a way that is usable and practical since it can relate the uniqueness of the food to the present state of the person who is to eat it. Modem nutritional science in the West stands in dramatic contrast to this, of course. Here we have succeeded in attaining greater accuracy, dependability and predictability by studying much more limited and isolated components of food. By separating out the carbohydrates, the proteins, or certain
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vitamins or minerals, we can make accurate predictions about how each will effect the body. Unfortunately, this is often difficult to relate to natural foods since each vegetable contains many nutrients and one may vary dramatically from the next in terms of its exact content of vitamins or minerals, and may include besides many other complex substances and properties which our analysis has overlooked. Thus, we might say that our Western analytic science of nutrition has attained greater precision at the expense of a sort of impoverishment: an appreciation of the richness and individuality of natural phenomena, both in the world of foods and in the world of human physiology, is lost.
Moreover, as we have seen before, a study of vitamins, minerals, and the other isolated components of food leaves us ill-equipped to deal with the practical situation of selecting this apple rather than that or one seasoning instead of a second. The practical, everyday, experiential situation of eating or preparing food seems far divorced from Western laboratory research on nutrition. By contrast, the Oriental science of nutrition is organized around and based on personal experience. It is through the inner experience of taste and one's reaction to the food that he formulates its properties. It is one's individuality and experience of himself that allows a conceptualization of how his system is functioning, i.e., a "diagnosis" in terms of tridosha. The focus of Ayur vedic nutrition is on the interaction between the person and the food and the directly observed and experienced reactions that occur.
Though Ayurveda is a medical science, its application is not limited to the physician. An understanding of the rudiments of Ayurveda is an important part of traditional education, and the physician's role is merely to be an expert or consultant in this area. The patient's role is to learn from the physician what he can about his own inner state, how it has become imbalanced, and how he can correct and prevent this through the proper selection of foods, herbs and condiments. The Ayurvedic physician is a teacher, and the patient takes over from him as treatment is terminated, the role of studying his own system, taking the management and maintenance of balance into his own hands.
________________________
From Rudolph Ballentine, M.D,
Diet And Nutrition: A Holistic Approach,
Himalayan International Institute, Honesdale, PA 18431, USA
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There is magic in the world — and there are miracles! Or so I believed after the remarkable cure which came to me about ten years ago — after nearly forty years of chronic illness. I was condemned to die for the want of a miracle — the only thing which could keep life in my miserable body whose throb was at its very lowest ebb.
My mind was frustrated and hope was the furthest thing within the reach of my despairing spirit. My one and only kidney harboured a nephritis — an infection which would not respond to the treatment of any of the modern wonder drugs.
Loneliness and worry added its fuel to an already desperate situation — for the body, it seemed, was on the verge of abdominal cancer — if it had not already developed that dreaded disease.
In desperation I decided to experiment on myself with a treatment I had only vaguely heard of — and about which I knew absolutely nothing. It was known as the Grape Cure. The outcome, after twenty-three days on the treatment, was so successful that it can be likened to an absolute miracle!
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Although there was irreparable damage within my body — as a result of three major internal operations — which included the removal of my right kidney twenty-three years previously, I came through the grape treatment looking and feeling twenty years younger — and I was completely and permanently cured! An abscess in my only kidney had come away by its roots. My body had been freed of all toxins and subsequent pains, but far, far more important than this, at the age of fifty-three, I had recaptured the supreme joy of living. My body became charged with a new vitality. I felt radiant and whole. My mind was mellow and perfectly contented, and my spirit had become a vivid and living thing again.
The experience was a truly remarkable transformation of a sick and dying body into a fine and healthy balance again, and it proved to me, quite conclusively, that the vast majority of ailing people — whatever the nature of the illness — can be permanently cured through the medium of the ordinary table grape, with the aid, of course, of the mind and the spirit: the body itself being a self-healing organ. The chemicals in the grape are almost magical in their healing properties.
My first act before commencing the treatment was to weigh myself. Being just on six feet tall, I should have scaled about 165 lb., whereas 146 was registered on the dial. This included clothes and shoes. I then made a record of all my symptoms.
My eyes were very swollen and blurred. It was difficult to see clearly even with my glasses. Eyes always swell when the body is in a dangerously toxic condition. Neuritis was constant in my right arm. The kidney was very painful and reluctant to function normally. There was pain on the left side of the large intestines. My ears had an infection and were very itchy. The stub of the ureter on the right side — where the kidney had been removed nearly thirty years previously — was painful and under strain. I felt extremely nauseated — and I had been constipated for several days.
In the circumstances death was almost certain unless some kind of miracle was to happen. With the grape treatment I was strong in my conviction that I stood a very good chance of recovery, since it was a method of removing small quantities of poison from the body each day, without putting any more into it, as is the case with drugs!
I consumed four pounds of grapes during the first day. On the second, all symptoms were much the same as the first, with the headache and nausea still rather bad. There was a great deal of belching. In the
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afternoon I went to a cinema to combat perhaps the only drawback in the whole treatment — boredom! A very small price to pay for such magnificent results!
On the third day I bought grapes from an old Greek gentleman and was richly rewarded with a strengthening of my faith and purpose in the treatment. Explaining my need for really ripe and sweet berries, he kindly permitted me to choose especially ripe bunches from his trays, Then, quite casually, he told me of a relation of his in Greece who was chair-ridden for forty years with chronic rheumatism and was completely cured by eating nothing but grapes and water-melon for a given period. What a tremendous fillip this heartening news gave me! On the third day there was a slight improvement in all symptoms, although my head ached rather badly — a clear sign I felt, of poisons being harassed and removed from the body, first through the bloodstream, causing irritation in the brain during normal circulation.
In the afternoon a feeling of moral strength mounted as I became conscious of a physical freshness for the first time in many years. On the fourth day I awakened at 5.30 a.m. All symptoms were greatly relieved but headache was still severe. After the usual routine I went to bed at 6.30 p.m., my usual time, feeling very tired but with no signs of actual weakness and certainly no desire for ordinary food....
(Basil Shackleton continued to take only 4 to 5 pounds of grapes for the next 20 days.)
Then came the twenty-third day — and the miracle! I awakened at 6.30 a.m. I was fresh, and everything appeared to be normal. The kidney felt sound and painless. The arm was free from trouble. There was no headache. Bowel movement was excellent and free from unpleasant odour. The urine, however, for the first time, was very cloudy and the flakes had increased. The previous day I had ceased drinking water. The volume of the urine had increased. At 8 a.m. I had my usual warm to-hot bath. Just before this there was a strong burning sensation at the end of the penis during urination, with only a few drops appearing. This was most unusual! Then small pieces of discoloured skin — a quarter of an inch long — brown in colour and not unlike a transparent pea-pod with black spots appeared in the urine.
At 10 A.M. I had a very severe attack of renal colic — similar to
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those experienced at the very beginning of my illness many years before, when small stones were moving out of the kidney into the ureter and down to the bladder.
Only those who have been the victims of renal colic — and of course the doctors — know what hell and frustration a patient has to contend with during these attacks — when searing pain from the interior of the kidney — running right through the ureter as far as the testicles, is constant for several hours. There was nothing I could do! Understandably my mind edged towards the precipice of panic, but I took a grip of myself and kept my faith — and before I had time to think again, the miracle happened
Earlier on I had taken several draughts of hot water to dilute the acid condition which caused the burning in the penis, and now I wanted to urinate again. It was like passing pure acid! The burning was severe. Then followed a flow of slime, blood, coarse dark sediment, and many flakes of what appeared to be blood-stained skin-substance.
This sparked off another tendency to panic. I was alone and in desperate pain. I knew that I dare not take a sedative, and wondered if some internal damage had been done. Should I send for a doctor? How was I to endure this unbearable agony? Then, in a flash, the truth was revealed to me. It was now obvious that an abscess had come away by its very roots from the kidney — and that all my problems were over!
Within one week — still on the diet without any complications — I was hundred percent fit. I looked and felt twenty years younger, and I was literally radiant with health. All forms of irritability and frustration —from which I had suffered for so many years — had completely disappeared. It was quite impossible for me, it seemed, to get angry!
All negative symptoms recorded before the treatment had completely vanished. I was able to read a newspaper without glasses. So charged was I with bubbling energy that I had to play golf twice a week. Moreover, I had no desire whatsoever either to smoke or drink alcohol, and this state has not changed since.
Just what is the secret of the grape as a cure to practically all, if not every known disease? The answer is very simple indeed! The body automatically rejects all toxins through the natural process of elimination, so that the blood may become and remain pure, in which state it is able to resist all disease. If the blood and the mind remained pure there could never again be illness, but, being what we are, and living in
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conditions of stress and strain in unnatural surroundings, we become creatures of imbalance through weak and undesirable habits in every facet of living, more particularly with our food, drink and nervous tensions. This brings about imbalance once again in the bloodstream, permitting disease to enter, breed and thrive in the body.
The great healing secret of the chemicals in the grape is that they are in themselves perfectly balanced (that is, of course, in a ripe grape), very strong indeed and able to dissolve and destroy all foreign matter in the, body without harming a single healthy tissue. Added to this magic is the indisputable fact that, at the same time, the body is asserting its own process of elimination of all toxins because it is not absorbing food with toxins, or toxins on their own such as liquor and nicotine. The two processes make the perfect cure.
So pure and balanced are the chemicals in the grape, that it is impossible for the fruit to go bad. This chemical reaction just cannot take place. Instead the grape dehydrates and becomes a raisin which preserves itself for unlimited periods. This happens even if a bunch of grapes is put into the refrigerator without any protection whatsoever. In three to six months the grapes will have become raisins! Many people have seen what they have thought to be a bad grape, but on examination it will be discovered that the skin of the grape has been punctured and that either mildew or fermentation has set in. / repeat, a whole grape, in perfect condition, cannot deteriorate or go bad.
__________________
From Basil Shackleton,
The Grape Cure, A Personal Statement,
Thorsons Publishing Group,
U.K.,1987
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Nutrition and the Cell
Pushed by the necessity of understanding his diseases and bolstered by his leisure time and insatiable curiosity, western man has used the tools of modern science to probe the mysteries of living matter. Over the last century, medical science has come increasingly to focus on the basic structure of protoplasm. The human body has been examined in increasing detail -— even the inside of what had been considered the smallest unit of life, the cell. Recently our understanding of the events inside the cell has become more and more detailed. The electron microscope has revealed for us the inner structure of the cell's substance and has helped us to explore its tiniest components.
A journey through the cell
Any effort toward good nutrition must start with and be organized around an awareness of the cell and its central importance in human nutrition. The clearer the picture we have of cellular function, the better we can provide for its nourishment. The busy world that exists there is as fascinating as it is complex. When we look inside the cell, we see embedded in its substance compact little units like tiny rooms where a great deal of activity is going on and from which heat emanates. These mini-power houses are called mitochondria. Outside, a continuous line of medium-sized molecules of fat and sugar wait to get in. Inside, they are broken down, and a continuous line of the by-products exits. The energy released is transferred to energy-carrying phosphate molecules (ATP). Highly charged streams of these issue from the mitochondrian, like electricity flowing from a generator. They serve as one of the chief sources of the energy that keeps the cells active.
There is a trend in the movement of other molecules as well. Various molecules filter in through the outer covering of the cell (the cell membrane). They are of several types: first are the glucose, fructose and other sugars which will be burned inside the mitochondria, producing carbon dioxide, water and energy. Another rather frequent arrival is the protein molecule, sometimes coming in large chains (some too large to get through the rather small openings in the wall and other times in little detached segments which are called amino acids d which pass through readily, only to be reassembled again into protein chains inside the cell.
The influx of sugars and amino acids is a routine matter for a cell, but
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occasionally a special molecule arrives which creates a flurry of unusual activity. This molecule, called a hormone, plays a very strategic role in regulating the chemical processes going on in the cell. Thyroid hormones, for example, speed up the overall tempo of cellular metabolism while adrenalin molecules accelerate the conversion of stored carbohydrate into a usable form, gearing the cells for emergency operations. Upon their arrival in certain areas of the cell, the whole course of activity shifts.
Other entering molecules that seem to play a strategic role in making metabolism possible are the vitamins. They are of many sizes and participate in many biochemical processes, but the one thing they are said to have in common is that the cell is generally unable to manufacture them, so they must come "ready-made" with the diet. Minerals can also be seen to enter the cell from outside. They vary in character but are generally smaller and even less frequent than the vitamins, though perhaps of equal or even greater importance. Calcium ions are among the more common of the minerals, where as some of the others are so rare as to be called trace elements. Zinc, copper, cobalt and manganese are some of these. Technically, the ever-present potassium ions also are minerals, but they are involved with water molecules and are distributed throughout the cellular protoplasm as is sodium, though it is more concentrated in the fluid that surrounds the cell.
Chromosomes and genes
In most cells, one will find a great deal of traffic coming and going from a central compartment, the nucleus. Small "messengers" enter and leave, carrying orders that are issued from here. The nucleus serves as a sort of central computer bank where plans for the cell's functioning are more or less encoded on long chains or coils of a protein-like substance called DNA. These chain like coils are called chromosomes, and each spot that carries a bit of information is a gene. Periodically, an assembly of special units called nucleic acids are brought to the nucleus to line up in order against a portion of the DNA chain, forming its mirror image, and these are joined together by a special molecule called an enzyme. After this process has been repeated a predetermined number of times, this new chain separates and moves out of the nucleus to another part of the cell, where the process is repeated. The end result is that a protein chain is synthesized. The order in which the units line up is extremely important, and it is the enzyme which helps them to interact in such a way ' that they are joined together with very little energy input.
Throughout most of the cells, it is the enzymes that do the bulk of the work. For each biochemical reaction that occurs, there is a special enzyme, and the reaction can proceed only in its presence. Some enzymes break down
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old molecules while others reassemble new ones. Other enzymes make sure that oxygen combines with sugar for its combustion, while still others break down fat chains.
While enzymes help build protein chains, actually they are themselves proteins. It is their special shape that endows them with the capacity for grasping, holding and bringing together other molecules. Many of them also depend in some way on a mineral (or trace element) for their mysterious ability to create and destroy. In fact, the regulation of the cell's overall performance is carried out through altering the activity of the enzymes. As the enzymes go, so goes the entire metabolism. In many cases, molecules of a foreign substance, a contaminant, or a medicinal compound, for example, shape the course of events in the cell by affecting the enzymatic activity.
Nutrition for the intracellular world
Studying the inner workings of the cell confronts us with a confusing maze of molecules. Our confusion is due in part to the fact that the molecules vary so much in size —some are huge, coiled, knotted up giants, while others are tiny by comparison. Gradually we realize, however, that there is actually a definite order to the apparent chaos. Careful scrutiny reveals a sort of lattice work made up of protein molecules that extends in every direction, creating a three dimensional frame within which the rest of the cellular components are moving. These beam-like structures form a sort of huge "jungle gym" that both preserves the shape of the cell as well as maintains each of the components in place. The chains of protein which make up this interior skeleton also seem to serve as sort of "assembly lines" along which the various molecules move, being altered at each juncture. What seems at first like random motion in the cell protoplasm is really very orderly, only it is so complex that the order is not at first apparent. In the spaces lying between the protein beams, the other molecules are separated by water molecules which serve as a sort of "fluid cement" holding them apart, and yet securing them in place, as the positive and negative poles of the water molecules shift and swing like swarms of tiny tugboats moving huge ships.
The intricate inner workings of the cell require certain molecules at each position and function well only if their components can be supplied. If "imported" material is not available, then some of the cell's processes may stop altogether while others are slowed. Though there are many alternate paths and much flexibility, repeated shortages or deficiencies result in malfunctioning of the cell and even, if they continue, in its death.
For tissue integrity to be maintained, the cells must have a ready supply of carbohydrate and fats which are used as the fuel for metabolism, a supply of
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protein for building materials and a supply of the many miscellaneous components of biochemical reactions such as vitamins and minerals which the cell does not itself manufacture. These raw materials which the cell needs from outside are called nutrients, and our primary source of them is another cell — that of the plant. Here we find all the needed nutrients combined in ideal pro portions and neatly packaged for our use.
Whether man takes his food directly from plants or indirectly from animals, it is the plant cell which is ultimately the source of the substances he needs. It is the nature of the plant cell to take energy from the sun and, using water and carbon dioxide along with the minerals it draws from the soil, to create the protein, the carbohydrate and the many other nutrients on which the animal cell relies.
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Extracts from Rudolph Ballentine, M.D,
Diet and Nutrition : A Holistic Approach (pp 39-44)
Biochemistry of Nutrition
When man first began the chemical study of nutrition, he became aware of the need for those nutrients which were used in the largest quantities. These were the carbohydrates such as sugar and starch which provide the fuel on which the body runs, and which comprise the largest bulk of what we eat. Although the body can burn fats or proteins, it does not do so as efficiently as it burns 'carbohydrate, so for smooth physiological functioning, substantial quantities of carbohydrate are constantly used.
The body can convert excess -carbohydrate into fat which is essentially a storage form of fuel. This can later be burned when there is no ready source of carbohydrate. Other animals besides man, of course, also make and store fat in the same way, and when animal foods (meat, fish, fowl, etc.) are eaten then fat becomes a significant part of the diet. Plants make some fats too, the majority of which tend to have a low melting point and are therefore normally encountered in liquid forms which we call oils. Certain of these oils, which are much more plentiful in plants than in animal food, cannot be manufactured by the body and must be taken in the diet in small amounts. Otherwise fat in the diet is taken less out of necessity than out of preference. While fats are ordinarily taken in lesser quantities than carbohydrates, protein is usually taken in still smaller amounts.
Protein is the basic building block of the body and makes up the frame
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work of its more rigid structures such as the cell walls, skin, bones, solid organs, blood vessels, etc. It is the framework of protein molecules inside the cells which serves as the inner skeleton that helps the cell to maintain its integrity. In most cases, protein structures are relatively stable, and there is not a rapid turnover of protein in the body. During times of growth, more protein is needed, but during adulthood there is a decreasing requirement. If more protein is taken in than is needed and if the intake of carbohydrate is low, the body will tend to burn the extra protein as fuel, and this may cause problems.
These three basic nutrients — carbohydrate, fat and protein — stand quite apart from other requirements of the body such as vitamins and minerals since they are needed in comparatively larger quantities; they are the fuel and the building materials which are used in bulk. The vitamins and minerals are, by contrast, analogous to the screws and bolts necessary for the construction and operation of the body. More precisely, if we think in chemical terms of the carbohydrate, fat and protein as the basic compound out of which the body is composed, then the vitamins and minerals are the catalysts which prompt these compounds to interact. While daily requirements of vitamins and minerals are recorded in amounts that can be measured in milligrams or even micro grams, protein, fat and carbohydrate intakes are expressed in grams, which is to say they are needed in amounts one thousand to a million times as great.
Most whole natural foods (with the exception of meat, which contains no carbohydrate) contain a balance of the three major nutrients as well as appropriate amounts of vitamins and minerals. Only with the coming of modern technology has man been able to cheaply and easily separate out the basic nutrients, yielding relatively pure fat or carbohydrate, for example, and creating the "refined" foods, mineral tablets and vitamin pills that are increasingly available today. This provides both the possibility of quickly supplying that which is deficient as well as the danger of taking excessive amounts of one of these nutrients. It also presents the hazard of disrupting the balanced food that nature offers us, thereby destroying the equilibrium of natural diet.
Diet and Nutrition : A Holistic Approach, (pp 46-48)
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The Ideal Diet
The Association called "The Health Seekers", in the U.S.A., have, after detailed research, evolved certain criteria for determining an "ideal diet". These criteria are presented below in the hope that the readers might find them useful in arriving at their own judgment on the subject.
1. Ideal foods must be nontoxic. Toxic substances are those which-are anti-vital", anti-life — that is... downright poisonous. The body cannot use toxic food for optimum nutrition. Ingested toxins in unnatural foods and drink are the primary basis for Enervation and Toxemia and future disease. Only fruits are virtually toxin-free, as are most vegetables, nuts, and seeds.
2. Ideal foods must be edible in the whole, raw, natural state. Fruits, vegetables, nuts, and seeds are not only easily eaten uncooked, but they are delicious that way! A food that cannot be eaten with relish in its raw state and made into a tasty meal is simply not an Ideal Food.
3. Ideal foods must have sensory appeal. Our Ideal Food delights the eye, gives enticing aromas, and provides a gustatory treat to the taste buds. Fruits and most vegetables, nuts and seeds meet this criterion.
4. Ideal foods must be easily digested when eaten alone or in proper combination. Ideal Foods undergo easy digestion without the formation of pathological debris. The foods are easily digested and readily assimilated without requiring a tremendous drain of Nerve Energy. The simple sugars in fruits are absorbed in less than an hour, which makes them the most easily digested food of all. With a generous meal of fruits, the digestive system is not heavily loaded down with a complicated, toxic mixture that defies the human capacity to process!
5. Ideal food must be efficiently digested. The human digestive system in its entirety was created to thrive at its finest on the ideal Diet of fresh, "sun cooked" fruits and vegetables, nuts and seeds. These foods, properly combined and in modest servings, the human body in a state of health digests most efficiently.
6. Ideal foods must have protein adequacy. Proteins are broken down into amino acids by the body, which are immediately assimilable nutrients. Because the body recycles approximately 3/4 of its proteinaceous waste in what is called the "amino acid pool," the body needs only 20 to 30 grams of protein daily — or less. A diet of fruits, vegetables, nuts and seeds provide a high quality, nontoxic protein
7. Ideal foods must be adequate in vitamin content. Whole, raw fruits and vegetables — because they have not undergone fragmentation of nutrients
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through processing, refining, or preserving — are vitamin-rich.
8. Ideal foods must be adequate in mineral salts. Ideal foods are miner al-rich. In the Ideal Diet, the minerals remain organic in form, since they come from whole, raw foods directly.
9. Ideal foods must supply needs for essential fatty acids. All the recognized "essential fatty acids" which the body requires but purportedly cannot synthesize are supplied in fruits and vegetables, nuts and seeds abundantly. We need very little actual PAT to begin with!
10. Ideal foods must supply our caloric needs. Our greatest, most immediate nutritional need is for fuel. It is estimated that approximately 90% of the body's nutrient needs are for glucose or "simple sugar." Carbohydrates, high in simple sugars, are the most readily usable form of body fuel. And fruits — of all the Ideal Foods — best meet this need. The carbohydrates in fruit are easily, efficiently converted to blood glucose, the body's primary fuel source.
11. Ideal foods are water-sufficient. The purest of water is found in fruits and vegetables, which are 78 to 95% water in the uncooked form. A diet of such foods will eliminate the need to drink liquid at all, except, perhaps, under conditions of extended, vigorous exercise and/or exceedingly warm climates.
12. Ideal foods are alkaline in metabolic reaction. The human body maintains an alkaline condition. This normal state of 7.4 ph is slightly alkaline. We may enhance the body in maintaining its alkalinity by partaking of a diet predominating in alkaline minerals. A food is classified "acid" or "alkaline" depending on which type of minerals predominate. The "acid minerals" are sulphur, phosphorous, and choline, which predominate in meat, eggs, refined sugar and refined grain products, and most nuts and seeds. The "alkaline minerals" are sodium, potassium, calcium, magnesium, and iron, which predominate in virtually all fruits and vegetables and some nuts and seeds. To maintain the proper acid/alkaline balance, the diet should be 80% alkaline forming foods and 20% acid-forming foods. And since fruits and vegetables are on the alkaline side of the scale, The Ideal Diet insures this proper acid/alkaline balance for health.
13. Ideal foods are fiber-rich. The human body needs a fiber-sufficient diet to insure stimulation of peristaltic action throughout the gastro-intestinal tract. All uncooked fruits, vegetables, nuts and seeds fulfil this criterion ideally.
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Extracts from The Health Seekers Year Book,
Bidwell, Freamont, Calif 94538, USA
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About Diets and Menus
The kind of food you put in your body may affect you. But there are hundreds and hundreds of different foods on earth, from nuts and berries to tofu or meat and nowadays processed or artificial foods...
How to choose what is best for you?
Scientists have discovered in food three main nutrients: protein, fat and carbohydrates. All foods can be classified (with some controversy) according to which nutrients predominate. You can then select your food on the basis of these nutrients which the body needs in known proportions... But this is not the only way to classify foods.
In one system, foods are classified according to colour:
— Red, yellow, orange foods have an alkaline effect
— Blue, violet and indigo have an acid effect
— Green foods are neutral.
Foods can also be listed according to their elements:
— Air
— Water
— Fire
Foods can be ordered according to the Chinese notion of
— Yin & Yang
Foods can also be assigned to individuals according to their astrological sign!
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All diets seek to balance the different elements they use for their classification of foods. One can also combine different approaches to food (in so far as they don't conflict!)
Below are a few samples of menus.
Ideal menu and timings (from an Institute of Naturopathy)
On rising early morning drink a glass or two of normal water after brushing your teeth.
Take a glass of juice (carrot/apple — with sweet mosambi/orange) before going for a brisk walk around 7.00 A.M. (during summer: 6.00 A.M.) May take a cup of skimmed milk after vigorous yogic exercises, if suits.
Lunch (10.00 A.M.)
Take good lunch (light but nutritious), as you need enough energy for working whole day.
— Salad (finish first)
— cooked vegetables 2 or 3
— medium chapati 2 or 3 or rice
— yoghurt (dahi) 1 or 2 cups
— steamed vegetables or light dal.
Around 2.00 P.M.
— 2 apples or 2 bananas or 2 pears or some papaya or any other sweet fruit, but one variety only.
Supper (Around 7.00 P.M.)
Out of total 1600 calories taken during the whole day, evening meal should not contain more than 350 calories. As per your taste and choice but light, e.g.
— (a) 1 or 2 cooked vegetable with 1 chapati and 1 cup of yoghurt
— or (b) 1 cup soup, 1 fruit and raw vegetables
— or (c) 2 cups of skimmed milk with 1 or 2 bananas or apples or toast.
Menus containing all colours
Breakfast
— idlis or chapati
— potato vegetable
— tea or milk
Lunch
—rice
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— lentils
— tomato, greens, carrot, coconut, sprouts salad
— fresh fruit
— spicy pickle
— yogurt
OS Dinner
— spicy whole gram
— puris
— fresh salad
— fruit or pudding or sweet
Macrobiotic menu
— whole cereal with milk
— herbal tea
— whole rice
— sesame seeds
— cooked vegetables
— small amount of fruits
Dinner
— cereal or pasta
— fruit pie
To be kept in mind while preparing menus
What is described below is not accepted by all nutritionists. The theory behind food combining was particularly worked out by Dr. Shelton, a famous nutritionist in the U.S.A. We believe that these suggestions are very useful provided that everyone experimentally finds what is effective in his or her case.
Incompatible combinations
Here are the combinations that are least compatible with the human digestive system, although these combinations are commonly used, they are also quite often followed by the symptoms of indigestion. Familiarize yourself with them, and soon, selecting compatible food combinations will be easy!
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Acid/starch combination
All acids destroy the starch-splitting enzyme, salivary amylase. This includes the acids contained in fruits and the acetic acid contained in vinegar. Additionally, due to the differing transit times of fruits and starches, the fruits will be detained in the stomach, resulting in fermentation.
Protein/starch combination
Salivary amylase is destroyed in the stomach in the presence of a highly acidic medium. Since protein digestion requires such a medium, this combination is unacceptable.
(Note: since this combination is so commonly used, it may be a factor as to why "food combining" has not been recognized by conventional nutritionists, as it would contradict many of our typical, conventional meals.)
Protein/protein combination
Each type of protein food requires different timings and different modifications of the digestive secretions. When one protein is combined with another protein, digestion becomes difficult. As protein is the most difficult food nutrient for the body to digest anyway, we would benefit by consuming only one type of protein at a meal. This would not exclude the eating of two or more types of nuts at a meal, as their composition is relatively similar. (Note: The most recent data concerning protein needs has shown that it is unnecessary to consume all essential amino acids at each meal.)
Acid/protein combination
The renowned physiologist Pavlov demonstrated the influence of acids upon protein digestion. The enzyme pepsin — necessary for protein digestion — will only be active in the presence of one particular acid, hydrochloric acid. Other acids may actually destroy this enzyme, including fruit acids. Also, when fruits are eaten with proteins, the fruits will — once again — be detained in the stomach until the completion of protein digestion, resulting in the fermentation of the fruit sugar.
There is an exception to this rule. The proteins such as nuts, seeds, and cheese, do not decompose as rapidly as other proteins, due to their high fat content. The inhibiting effect of fat on the gastric digestion of protein causes these types of proteins to receive their strongest digestive juice during the latter part of digestion. Therefore, the fruit acids do not delay the secretion of gastric juice any more than the fat content of these particular proteins. This distinction makes it acceptable to eat acid fruits with nuts, or cheese.
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Fat/protein combination
As was mentioned in the preceding paragraph, fats inhibit the flow of gastric juice, interfering with protein digestion. Dr. Shelton referred to this in his book by quoting from McLead's Physiology in Modern Medicine. "Fat has been shown to exert a distinct inhibiting influence on the secretion of gastric juice... the presence of oil in the stomach delays the secretion of juice poured out on a subsequent meal of otherwise readily digestible food." Since our need for fat is very little, and most protein foods already contain a sufficient quantity of fat, any additional fat intake becomes difficult to digest. Avoid combining butter, oils, avocado, etc. with protein foods.
Sugar/protein combination
Sugars also inhibit the secretion of gastric juice, interfering with protein digestion. This is true of both fruit sugars and commercial sugars. And, the sugar will be detained in the stomach, once again, resulting in fermentation.
Sugar/starch combination
If starch is combined with sugar, the starch is disguised, preventing the adaptation of the saliva to starch digestion. That is, the saliva will not contain the enzyme, salivary amylase, necessary for starch digestion. And the sugars will ferment in the stomach. The common practice of pastry eating or the common breakfast of mixing juice and/or fruits with cereals or bread is a cause of various unpleasant symptoms.
Take milk alone
Milk is that "perfect food" provided by nature for the young of each mammalian species of animal. The nutrient content is specific to provide for the nutritional needs of the particular animal. For instance, the milk of the cow is suited to the specific needs of the growing calf. And human milk (only) is suit ed to the specific needs of the human infant. There comes a time, however, when the animal weans itself from its mother's milk. We would be wise to adopt such a plan, as the enzyme "rennin" — secreted to digest milk proteins — is present in sufficient quantities only in the gastric juice of infants. When the child has a full set of teeth, the secretion of rennin begins to diminish. This phenomenon indicates the time has come for weaning and feeding solid food.
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Importance of an Experiential Approach to Nutrition
There is a great complexity of variables which affect the nutritive value of what one eats. Vitamin and mineral and even protein content varies not only from food to food but from foods grown in one area to those grown in another. The value of protein also depends on the way in which various foods are combined, and the amount of carbohydrate one needs depends on his activity and his way of life. Moreover, each person's needs vary according to his individual makeup, his personality and his way of reacting to situations around him, so that some people have higher requirements for one vitamin and lower requirements for another. The amount of food assimilated from that which is taken in depends to a great extent on the functioning of the digestive system. This also varies from person to person, but it may vary from day to day or even hour to hour as well, depending on one's emotional or mental state. One may secrete more enzymes or less depending on his state of mind, and on his attitude toward the food, what it might mean to him, or whether it looks and tastes appealing. Climatic and seasonal variables also enter into the picture, having an effect on one's requirements.
If we all vary in our psychological makeup, and because of this, use our bodies in different ways so that our nutritional requirements vary, how then does one go about finding out which diet is a good one for him? Faced with the complexity of choices in diet, biochemical individuality and the unpredictability of daily needs, it becomes quite apparent that one can't calculate mathematically what his requirements are.
Clearly, the optimal selection of food for an individual is a matter that defies his intellectual capacity. No amount of education and training prepares him to consider all these multiple variables in himself and in the food before him. One must therefore rely in part on taste, appetite, instincts, feelings, impulses and intuition. After we have learned to recognize what is wholesome and what is not, we must then make from the best available foods a correct selection.
Experiential criteria as a basis for nutritional understanding and the personal devising of a diet bypasses many difficulties. No longer is it necessary to try to analyze from the outside one's physiology, biochemistry and metabolic needs. Nor is it any longer necessary to analyze from the outside each food (which is extremely difficult in. any case since one tomato varies from the next, and so forth). Of course, it is an intuitive or subjective process of selection that we ordinarily certainly use, every meal, every day. But most of us have not examined this process to see how it might be sharpened and refined.
Once one has begun to approach the subject of nutrition from a personal,
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experiential point of view new horizons open. For instance, if one makes a careful study of the effects of different foods on himself, he will begin to find that he can classify them into different categories. What's more, he will begin to learn interesting things about himself — his feelings, his desires, his conflicts. In the East there are many systems which provide the framework within which one can do this, such as the Ayurvedic system. The same is probably true of other ancient cultures, but much of their knowledge has been lost since there is not the continuous, living tradition found in countries like India, Tibet and China.
Developing one's fullest capacity for studying himself in relationship to his food calls on the best of contemporary scientific data on nutrition and physiology combined with the essence of ancient traditions of organizing the experimental data of self-observation. But the rewards are worthwhile, both in terms of improved nutrition and personal growth.
Diet and Nutrition : A Holistic Approach, (pp 535-37)
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Greek physician treating a patient's arm
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A man was suddenly struck by a crippling disease. In a matter of only a few days, he was reduced from a normal condition to a situation where he could hardly move his limbs, and his jaws were nearly locked. In the words of the patient himself, "the bones in my spine and practically every joint in my body felt as though it had been run over by a truck". Doctors in the hospital gave him maximum doses of aspirin [26 a day] and phenylbutazone [12 a day] plus some more medicines. As a result, as he said later, he developed hives all over his body and felt as if his skin were being chewed up by millions of red ants. This man, in such a terrible and hopeless situation, was lucky to find a good and trustworthy doctor who told him the truth when he asked for it: his chances of recovery were about one in five hundred! Upon hearing this, he decided to take his treatment in his own hands, whatever the pain, whatever the risks. His deep intuition was that the self-healing powers of his body were given no chances to work under heavy medication. He there fore decided to get himself discharged from the hospital, much to the amazement of all the specialists concerned. He rented a room in a good hotel to continue the fight against his illness by his own chosen methods and finally cured himself.
This man's name was Norman Cousins. He became quite well known afterwards through the book he wrote to tell the story of his self cure under the title Anatomy of an Illness. This book made a profound
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impact. To many, it was the discovery that illnesses and treatments are not to be left to doctors only: healing is a complex process where the so called "patient" must participate as consciously as possible. Ultimately, it is the patient's body that has to respond to treatment and cure itself: medicines are only props trying to reestablish the proper functioning of the body. Nothing can replace the patient's will to recover and his own intimate perceptions of what is going on in his body. But the fact is that there is a great risk of depersonalisation in most hospitals where patients are often treated as bodies with little care for their individuality. Many hospitals tend to become like "body-processors", healing factories where individuals easily feel lost.
But it is not only the pressure of modern life which provokes a tendency towards depersonalisation in hospitals; the manner in which the body is usually perceived may also be responsible for patients being treated like chattels. From the beginning of what is called modern medicine, there has been a tendency to consider the body as a machine. Organs, bones, nerves, flesh, skin, muscles and the rest are generally seen as parts with which is built the "marvellous machine": an object which is expected to deteriorate and disfunction now and then, ultimately leading to death. It is seen as an object to be manipulated with caution, with the application of technical knowledge of its components by who act like engineers of the body-machine. Specialization comes naturally since the body is complex and intricate: just as with cars, where there are specialised engineers for motors, suspension, lighting, etc.... The negative counterpart to the longer life expectancy provided by the above mentioned expertise, however, is the dependency on, indeed, addiction to, more and more medicines. Thus, and it is not really surprising, it has become an onerous habit, particularly in developed countries — but it is spreading fast everywhere, — to treat symptoms with medicines and eventual side-effects of these medicines with ever more medicines!
A widespread dissatisfaction with modern medicine, despite its undeniable triumphs, has resulted in the advent of a large number of new approaches to health as well as a renewed interest in old, time tested systems. The Holistic movement in health has brought back the primacy of the person in the healing process and the overarching importance of the relation between the therapist and the patient. Different systems of medicine, like homeopathy, which have been often
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treated with mistrust or even faced with obstruction by the official medical authorities enjoy a much larger acceptance today. In the eyes of more and more people, the fact that homeopathy treats illness with only minute amounts of medicine is a guarantee against the risk of poisoning the body in allopathic treatment. Ayurvedic medicine, the timeless traditional medicine of India, holistic much before the word was coined, is evoking a growing interest beyond its usual clientele. Unfortunately however, there are also — with ever more people desperately seeking some kind of superhealth or elixir of youth, — numerous faddist theories or methods which can be eventually dangerous. Health books are sprouting everywhere at an exponential rate. Magazines and reviews are giving more and more space to health stories. Healing and health have become obsessions, are much talked about, but, unfortunately, not better understood.
Maybe healing is more an art than a science. Like in any art, the mastery of techniques is important, but the essence of healing transcends techniques or scientific knowledge: each individual to be healed is a vastly different person from the next in respect of his or her physiological and psychological make-up. Symptoms may be similar but a cure may work in one case but not with the other. Psychological needs are very different according to personalities. Some people need to be told the truth about their condition, which will be too heavy a burden for others. The true healer is one who knows intuitively both the medicine and the method appropriate to the case so as to evoke the self healing powers of the body. The efficient healer is one who creates the confidence in his/her patient that he/she can indeed recover, even when the outcome is uncertain. Indeed, healing is a very complex art: it is the result of the combination of accurate knowledge, precise techniques and the subtle psychological handling of patients. A good healer is truly an artist.
When people are asked what they consider most important in life, a majority put "good health" first. And it is quite understandable as, after all, health is the condition which is basic ,to all aspects of life. Interestingly enough, although it is so important, health is not easily defined. It may be because health is the sum and combination of many factors and also, beyond the objective criteria, very much dependent on subjective perceptions. Hypochondriacs are well known to feel them selves in bad health or, at least, in much worse condition than they
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really are. Mind appears to have extraordinary powers on the state of an individual's health and, as too many human minds are ordinarily cluttered with worries, fears, greed and other rather depressing feelings, it may not be very surprising that real, vigorous, exuberant health is perceived as a rarely attainable ideal. It is probably not by chance that, on average, scholars or monks who have led a very quiet life tend to reach a very ripe age; quietude, moderation and higher preoccupations in life appear to be a good prescription for long life and good health.' Good health could be seen as an artistic product much in the same way as we can call a good healer an artist.
As a demonstration of the power of mind in the healing process, we have included a very striking story of a British admiral successfully fighting a very bad case of arthritis in the hips by visualization and concentration only. His life was not threatened, as in the case of Norman Cousins, but still, according to specialists, there was little chance of his escaping the wheel chair at the end. After this rather grim prognosis, our admiral embarks upon quite a special programme of ordering about and around those undisciplined elements in his body that needed redress. — And it worked! An inoperable case was being operated upon by the mind scalpel. Within a comparatively short time, a remarkable cure was achieved, which no surgeon or medicine could have done. Also no less remarkable is the general tone of modesty with which the story is told by Admiral Whitlock in his book Mind Your Body. He is convinced that anyone can do what he did, and this is his main reason for speaking out. He may be right, in fact, but, unfortunately, modern medicine is so organized that it hardly leaves a chance to such methods to find their places. The potent and generally morbid fear around illnesses deprives patients of the kind of self-possession which is needed to try out such different healing methods.
Healing is an absolutely vast theme and a large number of books have been written on this subject. As our purpose is not to deal with any subject in the systematic manner of a textbook but rather to bring to the notice of the reader a sense of striking awareness, mystery and wonder, we have selected a few excerpts from the two above mentioned stories.
One may feel, upon reading a few excerpts of their stories, that Norman Cousins and Admiral Whitlock are exceptional personalities and that this is the basic reason for their success in their unconventional
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healing methods. There might be some truth in such feeling, but the fact remains that they very materially cured themselves. It demonstrates the possibility of such cures and the primacy of consciousness, determination and voluntary optimism over medicines. It proves the central importance for any cure of preserving and enhancing the self-healing powers of the body. Their stories may be exceptional, but the insights brought by their achievements in the field of healing are most important to a proper understanding of what healing truly is.
Dhanvantari, the god of Ayurveda
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May all be Happy. May all be free from diseases.
May all experience the Bliss.
Let none partake of any suffering.
The mind, the soul and the body — the three constitute the three poles (supporting the human structure). It is their combination that maintains the living beings. Everything depends en them for its subsistence.
Charakasamhita
He alone can be considered to be healthy whose dosas, power of digestion, and functioning of dhatus and malas are in a state of equilibrium and whose soul,
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mind and senses as well as organs are free from morbidities.
Sushrutasamhita
Good health is the very root of all the Purusharthas (motives of effort): dharma (righteousness), artha (wealth), kama (desire for enjoyment) and moksha (liberation). The diseases cause damage not only to them (Purusharthas) but also to the well-being and the very life (of human beings).
That alone can be considered to be a medicine which brings about good health. That alone can be considered a physician par excellence who can alleviate a patient's suffering.
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A medicine not well identified is as dangerous as a poison, or as a deadly weapon or as fire or as thunderbolt. The medicine well identified (with regard to its name, form and its efficaciousness, etc.) is as efficacious as nectar.
Even a pungent poisonous drug, if properly (processed and) applied becomes a medicament par excellence. Even an efficacious medicine can take shape of a poisonous drug if not properly (processed and) applied.
A person attending on patients is endowed with four fold virtues: acquaintance with the line of treatment, the requisite skill (for timely action), emotional regard for (the well being of) patients, and purity (cleanliness).
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A person attending upon (surgical) patients should have a sense of love free from scornful disposition towards patients; the requisite strength and expertise in alleviating the ailments; should have regard for the instructions of physician; should have an untiring zeal to serve patients.
A person attending on patients should be lovingly vigilant, pure (clean), skilful, and wise.
Ashtangahridaya
One desirous of being a physician — the wise person, should make an earnest effort to attain expertise (in the science of life) so that he could become a bestower of life to human beings.
All the observations made by the sage Vyasa in all the eighteen Puranas may be-summed up in the two statements: to do good to others is a virtuous act and to afflict others is a vicious one.
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and
Healing
Norman Cousins, author of the book from which we are presenting an extract, was a senior lecturer at the School of Medicine, University of California at Los Angeles, and consulting editor of "Man & Medicine", published at the College of Physicians and Surgeons, Columbia University. For almost all of his professional life, Norman Cousins was affiliated with "Saturday Review ". He became its editor in 1940, a position he held for more than thirty years. Mr. Cousins is the author of eleven books, including Dr. Schweitzer of Lambarene, The Celebration of Life, Present Tense, In place of Folly, The Good Inheritance, and Modern Man Is Obsolete. Norman Cousins died a few years ago.
This is about a serious illness that occurred in 1964. I was reluctant to write about it for many years because I was fearful of creating false hopes in others who were similarly afflicted. Moreover, I knew that a single case has small standing in the annals of medical research, having little more than "anecdotal" or "testimonial" value. However, references to the illness surfaced from time to time in the general and medical press. People wrote to ask whether it was true that I "laughed" my way out of a crippling disease that doctors believed to be irreversible. In view of those questions, I thought it useful to provide a fuller account than appeared in those early reports.
In August 1964, I flew home from a trip abroad with a slight fever. The malaise, which took the form of a general feeling of achiness, rapidly deepened. Within a week it became difficult to move my neck, arms, hands, fingers, and legs. My sedimentation rate was over 80. Of all the diagnostic tests, the "sed" rate is one of the most useful to the physician. The way it works is beautifully simple. The speed with which red blood cells settle in a test tube — measured in millimetres
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per hour — is generally proportionate to the severity of an inflammation or infection. A normal illness, such as grippe, might produce a sedimentation reading of, say, 30 or even 40. When the rate goes well beyond 60 or 70, however, the physician knows that he is dealing with more than a casual health problem. I was hospitalized when the sed rate hit 88. Within a week it was up to 115, generally considered to be a sign of a critical condition.
There were other tests, some of which seemed to me to be more an assertion of the clinical capability of the hospital than of concern for the well-being of the patient. I was astounded when four technicians from four different departments took four separate and substantial blood samples on the same day. That the hospital didn't take the trouble to coordinate the tests, using one blood specimen, seemed to me inexplicable and irresponsible. Taking four large slugs of blood the same day even from a healthy person is hardly to be recommended. When the technicians came the second day to fill their containers with blood for processing in separate laboratories, I turned them away and had a sign posted on my door saying that I would give just one specimen every three days and that I expected the different departments to draw from one vial for their individual needs....
My doctor did not quarrel with my reservations about hospital procedures. I was fortunate to have as a physician a man who was able to put himself in the position of the patient. Dr. William Hitzig supported me in the measures I took to fend off the random sanguinary assaults of the hospital laboratory attendants.
We had been close friends for more than twenty years, and he knew of my own deep interests in medical matters. We had often discussed articles in the medical press, including the New England Journal of Medicine (NEJM), and Lancet. He was candid with me about my case. He reviewed the reports of the various specialists he had called in as consultants. He said there was no agreement on a precise diagnosis. There was, however, a consensus that I was suffering from a serious collagen illness — a disease of the connective tissue. All arthritic and rheumatic diseases are in this category. Collagen is the fibrous sub stance that binds the cells together. In a sense, then, I was coming unstuck. I had considerable difficulty in moving my limbs and even in turning over in bed. Nodules appeared on my body, gravel-like sub stances under the skin, indicating the systemic nature of the disease. At
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the low point of my illness, my jaws were almost locked.
Dr. Hitzig called in experts from Dr. Howard Rusk's rehabilitation clinic in New York. They confirmed the general opinion, adding the more particularized diagnosis of ankylosing spondylitis, which would mean that the connective tissue in the spine was disintegrating.
I asked Dr. Hitzig about my chances for full recovery. He levelled with me, admitting that one of the specialists had told him I had one chance in five hundred. The specialist had also stated that he had not personally witnessed a recovery from this comprehensive condition.
All this gave me a great deal to think about. Up to that time, I had been more or less disposed to let the doctors worry about my condition. But now I felt a compulsion to get into the act. It seemed clear to me that if I was to be that one in five hundred I had better be something more than a passive observer.
I asked Dr. Hitzig about the possible origin of my condition. He said that it could have come, for example, from heavy-metal poisoning, or it could have been the after-effect of a streptococcal infection.
I thought as hard I could about the sequence of events immediately preceding the illness. I had gone to the Soviet Union in July 1964 as chairman of an American delegation to consider the problems of cultural exchange. The conference had been held in Leningrad, after which we went to Moscow for supplementary meetings. Our hotel was in a residential area. My room was on the second floor. Each night a pro cession of diesel trucks plied back and forth to a nearby housing project in the process of round-the-clock construction. It was summer, and our windows were wide open. I slept uneasily each night and felt somewhat nauseated on arising. On our last day in Moscow, at the air port, I caught the exhaust spew of a large jet at point-blank range as it swung around on the tarmac.
As I thought back on that Moscow experience, I wondered whether the exposure to the hydrocarbons from the diesel exhaust at the hotel and at the airport had anything to do with the underlying cause of the illness. If so, that might account for the speculations of the doctors concerning heavy-metal poisoning. The trouble with this theory, however, was that my wife, who had been with me on the trip, had no ill effects from the same exposure. How likely was it that only one of us would have reacted adversely?
It seemed to me, as I thought about it, that there were two possible
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explanations for the different reactions. One had to do with individual allergy. The second was that I could have been in a condition of adrenal exhaustion and less apt to tolerate a toxic experience than someone whose immunologic system was fully functional.
Was adrenal exhaustion a factor in my own illness?
Again, I thought carefully. The meetings in Leningrad and Moscow had not been casual. Paper work had kept me up late nights. I had ceremonial responsibilities. Our last evening in Moscow had been, at least for me, an exercise in almost total frustration. A reception had been arranged by the chairman of the Soviet delegation at his dacha, located thirty-five to forty miles outside the city. I had been asked if I could arrive an hour early so that I might tell the Soviet delegates something about the individual Americans who were coming to dinner. The Russians were eager to make the Americans feel at home, and they had thought such information would help them with the social amenities.
I was told that a car and driver from the government automobile pool in Moscow would pick me up at the hotel at 3:30 P.M. This would allow ample time for me to drive to the dacha by 5:00, when all our Russian conference colleagues would be gathered for the social briefing. The rest of the Americans delegation would arrive at the dacha at 6:00 P.M.
At 6:00, however, I found myself in open country on the wrong side of Moscow. There had been a misunderstanding in the transmission o£ directions to the driver, the result being that we were some eighty miles off course. We finally got our bearings and headed back to Moscow. Our chauffeur had been schooled in cautious driving; he was not disposed to make up lost time. I kept wishing for a driver with a compulsion to prove that auto racing, like baseball, originally came from the U.S.S.R.
We didn't arrive at the dacha until 9:00 P.M. My host's wife looked desolate. The soup had been heated and reheated. The veal was dried out. I felt pretty wrung out myself. It was a long flight back to the States the next day. The plane was overcrowded. By the time we arrived in New York, cleared through the packed customs counters, and got rolling back to Connecticut, I could feel an uneasiness deep in my bones. A week later I was hospitalized.
As I thought back on my experience abroad, I knew that I was probably on the right track in my search for a cause of the illness. I found
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myself increasingly convinced, as I said a moment ago, that the reason I was hit hard by the diesel and jet pollutants, whereas my wife was not, was that I had a case of adrenal exhaustion, lowering my resistance.
Assuming this hypothesis was true, I had to get my adrenal glands functioning properly again and to restore what Walter B. Cannon, in his famous book. The Wisdom of the Body, called homeostasis.
I knew that the full functioning of my endocrine system — in particular the adrenal glands — was essential for combating severe arthritis or, for that matter, any other illness. A study I had read in the medical press reported that pregnant women frequently have remissions of arthritic or other rheumatic symptoms. The reason is that the endocrine system is fully activated during pregnancy.
How was I to get my adrenal glands and my endocrine system, in general, working well again?
I remember having read, ten years or so earlier, Hans Selye's classic book. The Stress of Life. With great clarity, Selye showed that adrenal exhaustion could be caused by emotional tension, such as frustration or suppressed rage. He detailed the negative effects of the negative emotions on body chemistry.
The inevitable question arose in my mind: what about the positive emotions? If negative emotions produce negative chemical changes in the body, wouldn't the positive emotions produce positive chemical changes? Is it possible that love, hope, faith, laughter, confidence, and the will to live have therapeutic value? Do chemical changes occur only on the downside?
Obviously, putting the positive emotions to work was nothing so simple as turning on a garden hose. But even a reasonable degree of control over my emotions might have a salutary physiologic effect. Just replacing anxiety with a fair degree of confidence might be helpful.
A plan began to form in my mind for systematic pursuit of the salutary emotions, and I knew that I would want to discuss it with my doctor. Two preconditions, however, seemed obvious for the experiment. The first concerned my medication. If that medication were toxic to any degree, it was doubtful whether the plan would work. The second precondition concerned the hospital. I knew I would have to find a place somewhat more conducive to a positive outlook on life.
Let's consider these preconditions separately.
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First, the medication. The emphasis had been on pain-killing drugs — aspirin, phenylbutazone (butazolidine), codeine, colchicine, sleeping pills. The aspirin and phenylbutazone were anti-inflammatory and thus were therapeutically justifiable. But I wasn't sure they weren't also toxic. It developed that I was hypersensitive to virtually all the medication I was receiving. The hospital had been giving me maximum dosages: twenty-six aspirin tablets and twelve phenylbutazone tablets a day. No wonder I had hives all over my body and felt as though my skin were being chewed up by millions of red ants.
It was unreasonable to expect positive chemical changes to take place so long as my body was being saturated with, and toxified by, pain-killing medications. I had one of my research assistants at the "Saturday Review" look up the pertinent references in the medical journals and found that drugs like phenylbutazone and even aspirin levy a heavy tax on the adrenal glands. I also learned that phenylbutazone is one of the most powerful drugs being manufactured. It can produce bloody stools, the result of its antagonism to fibrinogen. It can cause intolerable itching and sleeplessness. It can depress bone mar row.
Aspirin, of course, enjoys a more auspicious reputation, at least with the general public. The prevailing impression of aspirin is that it is not only the most harmless drug available but also one of the most effective. When I looked into research in the medical journals, however, I found that aspirin is quite powerful in its own right and warrants considerable care in its use. The fact that it can be bought in unlimited quantities without prescription or doctor's guidance seemed indefensible. Even in small amounts, it can cause internal bleeding. Articles in the medical press reported that the chemical composition of aspirin, like that of phenylbutazone, impairs the clotting function of platelets, disc-shaped substances in the blood.
It was a mind-boggling train of thought. Could it be, I asked myself, that aspirin, so universally accepted for so many years, was actually harmful in the treatment of collagen illnesses such as arthritis?
The history of medicine is replete with accounts of drugs and modes of treatment that were in use for many years before it was recognized that they did more harm that good. For centuries, for example, doctors believed that drawing blood from patients was essential for rapid recovery from virtually every illness. Then, midway through the nineteenth
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century, it was discovered that bleeding served only to weaken the patient. King Charles II's death is believed to have been caused in part by administered bleedings. George Washington's death was also hastened by the severe loss of blood resulting from this treatment.
Living in the second half of the twentieth century, I realized, confers no automatic protection against unwise or even dangerous drugs and methods. Each age has had to undergo its own special nostrums. Fortunately, the human body is a remarkably durable instrument and has been able to withstand all sorts of prescribed assaults over the centuries, from freezing to animal dung.
Suppose I stopped taking aspirin and phenylbutazone? What about the pain? The bones in my spine and practically every joint in my body felt as though I had been run over by a truck.
I knew that pain could be affected by attitudes. Most people become panicky about almost any pain. On all sides they have been so bombarded by advertisements about pain that they take this or that analgesic at the slightest sign of an ache. We are largely illiterate about pain and so are seldom able to deal with it rationally. Pain is part of the body's magic. It is the way the body transmits a sign to the brain that something is wrong. Leprous patients pray for the sensation of pain. What makes leprosy such a terrible disease is that the victim usually feels no pain when his extremities are being injured. He loses his fingers or toes because he receives no warning signal.
I could stand pain so long as I knew that progress was being made in meeting the basic need. That need, I felt, was to restore the body's capacity to halt the continuing breakdown of connective tissue.
There was also the problem of the severe inflammation. If we dispensed with the aspirin, how would we combat the inflammation? I recalled having read in the medical journals about the usefulness of ascorbic acid in combating a wide number of illnesses — all the way from bronchitis to some types of heart disease. Could it also combat inflammation? Did vitamin C act directly, or did it serve as a starter for the body's endocrine system — in particular, the adrenal glands? Was it possible, I asked myself, that ascorbic acid had a vital role to play in "feeding" the adrenal glands?
I had read in the medical press that vitamin C helps to oxygenate the blood. If inadequate or impaired oxygenation was a factor in collagen breakdown, couldn't this circumstance have been another argument
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for ascorbic acid? Also, according to some medical reports, people suffering from collagen diseases are deficient in vitamin C. Did this lack mean that the body uses up large amounts of vitamin C in the process of combating collagen breakdown?
I wanted to discuss some of these ruminations with Dr. Hitzig. He listened carefully as I told him of my speculations concerning the cause of the illness, as well as my layman's ideas for a course of action that might give me a chance to reduce the odds against my recovery.
Dr. Hitzig said it was clear to him that there was nothing undersized about my will to live. He said that what was most important was that I continue to believe in everything I had said. He shared my excitement about the possibilities of recovery and liked the idea of a partnership.
Even before we had completed arrangements for moving out of the hospital we began the part of the program calling for the full exercise of the affirmative emotions as a factor in enhancing body chemistry. It was easy enough to hope and love and have faith, but what about laughter? Nothing is less funny than being flat on your back with all the bones in your spine and joints hurting. A systematic program was indicated. A good place to begin, I thought, was with amusing movies. Alien Funt, producer of the spoofing television program "Candid Camera," sent films of some of his CC classics, along with a motion-picture projector.
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The nurse was instructed in its use. We were even able to get our hands on some old Marx Brothers films. We pulled down the blinds and turned on the machine.
It worked. I made the joyous discovery that ten minutes of genuine belly laughter had an anaesthetic effect and would give me at least two hours of pain free sleep. When the pain-killing effect of the laughter wore off, we would switch on the motion-picture projector again, and, not infrequently, it would lead to another pain-free sleep interval. Sometimes, the nurse read to me out of a trove of humour books. Especially useful were E.B. and Katherine White's Subtreasury of American Humour and Max Eastman's The Enjoyment of Laughter.
How scientific was it to believe that laughter — as well as the positive emotions in general — was affecting my body chemistry for the better? If laughter did in fact have a salutary effect on the body's chemistry, it seemed at least theoretically likely that it would enhance the system's ability to fight the inflammation. So we took sedimentation rate readings just before as well as several hours after the laughter episodes. Each time, there was a drop of at least five points. The drop by itself was not substantial, but it held and was cumulative. I was greatly elated by the discovery that there is a physiologic basis for the ancient theory that laughter is good medicine.
Greek
theatre
mask used
by the comic
actors.
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There was, however, one negative side-effect of the laughter from the standpoint of the hospital. I was disturbing other patients. But that objection didn't last very long, for the arrangements were now complete for me to move my act to a hotel room.
One of the incidental advantages of the hotel room, I was delighted to find, was that it cost only about one-third as much as the hospital. The other benefits were incalculable. I would not be awakened for a bed bath or for meals or for medication or for a change of bed sheets or for tests or for examinations by hospital interns. The sense of serenity was delicious and would, I felt certain, contribute to a general improvement.
What about ascorbic acid and its place in the general program for recovery? In discussing my speculations about vitamin C with Dr. Hitzig, I found him completely open-minded on the subject, although he told me of serious questions that had been raised by scientific studies. He also cautioned me that heavy doses of ascorbic acid carried some risk of renal damage. The main problem right then, however, was not my kidneys; it seemed to me that, on balance, the risk was worth taking. I asked Dr. Hitzig about previous recorded experience with massive doses of vitamin C. He ascertained that at the hospital there had been cases in which patients had received up to 3 grams by intra muscular injection.
As I thought about the injection procedure, some questions came to mind. Introducing the ascorbic acid directly into the bloodstream might make more effective use of the vitamin, but I wondered about the body's ability to utilize a sudden, massive infusion. I knew that one of the great advantages of vitamin C is that the body takes only the amount necessary for its purposes and excretes the rest. Again, there came to mind Cannon's phrase — the wisdom of the body.
Was there a coefficient of time in the utilization of ascorbic acid? The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed to me that the body would excrete a large quantity of the vitamin because it couldn't metabolize it fast enough. I wondered whether a better procedure than injection would be to administer the ascorbic acid through slow intra venous drip over a period of three or four hours. In this way we could go far beyond 3 grams. My hope was to start at 10 grams and then increase the dose daily until we reached 25 grams.
Dr. Hitzig's eyes widened when I mentioned 25 grams. This amount was far beyond any recorded dose.
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He said he had to caution me about the possible effect not just on the kidneys but on the veins in the arms. Moreover, he said he knew of no data to support the assumption that the body could handle 25 grams over a four-hour period, other than by excreting it rapidly through the urine.
As before, however, it seemed to me we were playing for bigger stakes: losing some veins was not of major importance alongside the need to combat whatever was eating at my connective tissue.
To. know whether we were on the right track we took a sedimentation test before the first intravenous administration of 10 grams of ascorbic. Four hours later, we took another sedimentation test. There was a drop of nine full points.
Seldom had I known such elation. The ascorbic acid was cutting heavily into whatever poison was attacking the connective tissue. The fever was receding, and the pulse was no longer racing.
We stepped up the dosage. On the second day we went to 12.5 grams of ascorbic acid, on the third day, 15 grams, and so on until the end of the week, when we reached 25 grams. Meanwhile, the laughter routine was in full force. I was completely off drugs and sleeping pills. ;
Sleep — blessed, natural sleep without pain — was becoming increasingly prolonged, j
At the end of the eighth day I was able to move thumbs without S pain. By this time, the sedimentation rate was somewhere in the 80s and dropping fast. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed to me that the gravel-like nodules on my neck and the backs of my hands were beginning to shrink. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to make it back all the way. I could function, and the feeling was indescribably beautiful.
I must not make it appear that all my infirmities disappeared overnight. For many months I couldn't get my arms up far enough to reach for a book on a high shelf. My fingers weren't agile enough to do what I wanted them to do on the organ keyboard. My neck had a limit ed turning radius. My knees were somewhat wobbly, and off and on, I have had to wear a metal brace.
Even so, I was sufficiently recovered to go back to my job at the "Saturday Review" full time again, and this was miracle enough for me.
Is the recovery a total one? Year by year the mobility has improved.
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I have become pain-free, except for one shoulder and my knees, although I have been able to discard the metal braces. I no longer feel a sharp twinge in my wrists when I hit a tennis ball or golf ball, as I did for such a long time. I can ride a horse flat out and hold a camera with a steady hand. And I have recaptured my ambition to play the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, though I find the going slower and tougher than I had hoped. My neck has a full turning radius again, despite the statement of specialists as recently as 1971 that the condition was degenerative and that I would have to adjust to a quarter turn.
It was seven years after the onset of the illness before I had scientific confirmation about the dangers of using aspirin in the treatment of collagen diseases. In its May 8, 1971 issue, Lancet published a study by Drs. M.A. Sahud and R.J. Cohen showing that aspirin can be antagonistic to the retention of-vitamin C in the body. The authors said that patients with rheumatoid arthritis should take vitamin C supplements, since it has often been noted that they have low levels of the vitamin in their blood. It was no surprise, then, that I had been able to absorb such massive amounts of ascorbic acid without kidney or other complications.
What conclusions do I draw from the entire experience?
The first is that the will to live is not a theoretical abstraction, but a' physiologic reality with therapeutic characteristics. The second is that I was incredibly fortunate to have as my doctor a man who knew that his biggest job was to encourage to the fullest the patient's will to live and to mobilize all the natural resources of body and mind to combat disease. Dr. Hitzig was willing to set aside the large and often hazardous armamemtarium of powerful drugs available to the modem physician when he became convinced that his patient might have something better to offer. He was also wise enough to know that the art of healing is still a frontier profession. And, though I can't be sure of this point, I have a hunch he believed that my own total involvement was a major factor in my recovery.
People have asked what I thought when I was told by the specialists that my disease was progressive and incurable.
The answer is simple. Since I didn't accept the verdict, I wasn't trapped in the cycle of fear, depression, and panic that frequently accompanies a supposedly incurable illness. I must not make it seem, however, that I was unmindful of the seriousness of the problem or that
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I was in a festive mood throughout. Being unable to move my body was all the evidence I needed that the specialists were dealing with real concerns. But deep down, I knew I had a good chance and relished the idea of bucking the odds.
Adam Smith, in his book. Powers of the Mind, says he discussed my recovery with some of his doctor friends, asking them to explain why the combination of laughter and ascorbic acid worked so well. The answer he got was that neither laughter nor ascorbic acid had anything to do 'with it and that I probably would have recovered if nothing had been done.
Maybe so, but that was not the opinion of the specialists at the time.
Two or three doctors, reflecting on the Adam Smith account, have commented that I was probably the beneficiary of a mammoth venture in self-administered placebos.
Such a hypothesis bothers me not at all. Respectable names in the history of medicine, like Paracelsus, Holmes, and Osier, have suggest ed that the history of medication is far more the history of the placebo effect than of intrinsically valuable and relevant drugs. Such modalities ; as bleeding (in a single year, 1827, France imported 33 million leeches after its domestic supplies had been depleted); purging through emetics; physical contact with unicorn horns, bezoar stones, mandrakes, or ' powdered mummies — all such treatments were no doubt regarded by physicians at the time as specifics with empirical sanction. But today's medical science recognizes that whatever efficacy these treatments may have had — and the records indicate that the results were often surprisingly in line with expectations — was probably related to the power of the placebo....
I was absolutely convinced, at the time I was deep in my illness, that intravenous doses of ascorbic acid could be beneficial — and they were. It is quite possible that this treatment — like everything else I did — was a demonstration of the placebo effect....
What we are talking about essentially, I suppose, is the chemistry of the will to live. In Bucharest in 1972, I visited the clinic of Ana Asian, described to me as one of Romania's leading endocrinologists. She spoke of her belief that there is a direct connection between a robust will to live and the chemical balances in the brain. She is convinced that creativity — one aspect of the will to live — produces the vital brain impulses that stimulate the pituitary gland, triggering effects on
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the pineal gland and the whole of the endocrine system. Is it possible that placebos have a key role in this process? Shouldn't this entire area be worth serious and sustained attention?
If I had to guess, I would say that the principal contribution made by my doctor to the taming, and possibly the conquest, of my illness was that he encouraged me to believe I was a respected partner with him in the total undertaking. He fully engaged my subjective energies. He may not have been able to define or diagnose the process through which self-confidence (wild hunches securely believed) was somehow picked up by the body's immunologic mechanisms and translated into antimorbid effects, but he was acting, I believe, in the best tradition of medicine in recognizing that he had to reach out in my case beyond the usual verifiable modalities. In so doing, he was faithful to the first dictum in his medical education: above all, do not harm.
Sometimes else I have learned. I have learned never to underestimate the capacity of the human mind and body to regenerate — even when the prospects seem most wretched. The life-force may be the least understood force on earth. William James said that human beings tend to live too far within self-imposed limits. It is possible that these limits will recede when we respect more fully the natural drive of the human mind and body toward perfectibility and regeneration. Protecting and cherishing that natural drive may well represent the finest exercise of human freedom.
From Norman Cousins, Anatomy of an Illness,
Bantam Books, New York, 1979
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Frontal section of the pelvis showing both hip-joints
by
visualization and concentration
The trouble in my hips had been evident for a long while. It was during a complete medical check-up just before I left the Royal Navy in 1965 that the orthopaedic specialist first told me there were signs of arthritis developing in my right hip, and to a somewhat lesser extent in the left one. I asked him if there was anything I could do about it and he said that certain exercises could help to delay the deterioration of the condition, and that shortwave therapy could alleviate the symptoms for a time....
Then quite suddenly I was in trouble. Not only did the pain increase and become continuous, but the muscles would go into spasm and, if I wasn't quick, I would stagger ungracefully to the ground. I had to limit my walking very severely and sleeping at night became exceedingly difficult....
At the beginning of 1975, nineteen years after I had first learnt of the trouble, there was once again a serious deterioration; walking more than a hundred yards or so became very difficult indeed and I decided to do something about it, something I should have done a long time ago but hadn't, I suppose, because I didn't want to accept what was now obvious.
There was a very good local orthopaedic surgeon whom we knew and had visited as a family, and I decided to get his professional advice on the X-rays and to have an examination to see how far the matter had gone. The visit was very helpful. We studied the X-rays in detail and I was able to differentiate clearly between the arthritic tissue and the bone to which it was attached. He checked the limitation of movement and then told me more or less what I already knew but adding that it might be advisable for me to spend a day in hospital so that he could break down the lesions under an anaesthetic, which would restore some of the movement I had lost. After that, he could fit a steel ball, which was now a common operation and one which he was doing frequently. But this wouldn't be necessary for another two years or so.
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I was grateful for his clear explanation of what was going on in the joint but I was strengthened in my conviction that if I was to stop the rot, I would have to do something about it myself.
That must have been about April 75, and I immediately started to learn the physiology of the hip joint. I knew enough about the pathology of the joint in its present state to realize what needed to be put right, but I had yet to learn how the joint maintained itself when in normal health. Gray's Anatomy gave me all that I needed, but it took me a long time before I was able to picture the inside of the joint with the cartilage, the synovial membrane, and the ligaments in their correct positions, as well as the shape and structure of the head of the femur which formed the ball of the joint, and the acetabulum which formed the socket. I was not satisfied until I could visualize clearly the two parts of the joint separately and then fitted one into the other. By this time, I was able to wander mentally round inside the joint directing my attention to the various parts.
This took me three months and I was then ready to think about the sort of programme I would need, first of all to stop further deterioration, and then to rebuild the joint into a more healthy condition....
Background Thinking
We know that the autonomic processes of the body are normally con trolled subconsciously and we do not believe that we have the conscious ability to affect them. But we also know that, without intending to, we can produce very serious effects on the body's well-being by repressions, sometimes going way back into childhood years, and other mental influences which, working, so to speak, behind the scenes and through the subconscious mind, eventually come out into the open as serious psychological or physical defects.
And on the positive side there is evidence to show that a mind positively intent on overcoming some physical disability can bring about recoveries that are little short of miraculous. There have been young girls who, although stricken with polio, have been determined to become ballet dancers, and have done just that. There have been those with cancer who have decided that they are not going to succumb, and the cancer has regressed. There are many such cases of the power of the will overcoming physical disability. The mind is as capable of remedying defects as it is of bringing them about.
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The hip-joint as depicted in the Gray anatomy
We must accept, therefore, that contact can be made with the autonomic mind to bring about remark able changes both good and bad, but how do we set about making this contact, with the express purpose of assisting the body to overcome injury and disease? It is now accepted by many people that a rigorous practice of certain yoga exercises can lead to remarkable control of many of the autonomic processes of the body; demonstrations before competent doctors have been recorded, of slowing the heart and breathing — allowing a man to be buried underground for a long period — control of bleeding, and the much witnessed spectacle of Hindus walking and dancing on red hot embers. There are, too, many other seemingly impossible physical accomplishments common among the Buddhists of Tibet,
all demonstrating the possibility of making conscious contact with the mind controlling these normally unreachable activities of the body's functioning....
The fundamental understanding, on which the practice of body engineering has been based, comes from the personal discovery that mind is one, and that the essence of all that we call matter is mind. By personal discovery I mean just that — not something which one acquires intellectually from someone else and believes because it seems to be reasonable and logical, but rather, an interpretation of reality which comes through instinct and intuition, and doesn't need proof....
To my simple statement the 'mind is one', you may very well reply, 'That is all very well, but what is mind?' And I simply have to dodge that one. A universal basic essence cannot be described in words, and it
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certainly would not be safe to try to do so. Any definition or explanation could be picked to pieces, because the words could only be allegorical, poetic analogy, or pregnant with inferred significance. The only way to reply to a question like this is to say, 'To find out, you must experience it', and to do this usually requires a long period of serious meditation practice, leading to the elimination of thought and its substitution by insight.
I know that this is not a very good answer, but it is the only possible safe one. To define is always to limit. But pure mind has no limits, and there is no other experience with which we can compare it.
The apparent separation into individual minds is, in reality, only the separation of the vehicles through which mind is manifested, and not a separation of mind itself. It is therefore evident to me that contact already exists between what we think of as separate minds, as well as between what we call conscious and autonomic mind, but we have lost or have not yet discovered the means of realizing this contact. We are like individual electric light bulbs on the same circuit but each apparently having no contact with the others.
It is not only the human race that is privileged to have mind as its essence; it is the whole of creation, animate and inanimate. Such a situation puts the idea of communication between us and the rest of creation in a very exciting light. What we have to discover is the method of bringing it about, how to circumvent the material sheath that appears to shut in mind from mind. My own task was a restricted version of this problem — how to make contact with the autonomic mind.
I believed that this could be done to a limited extent by verbally giving orders and repeating them regularly for a period of ten minutes or so. This method is employed by many who wish to wake up at a certain time in the morning and who do not like the strident call of an alarm clock. And I know many people who solve problems in this way, by thoroughly going over the facts before going to sleep at night and giving a mental instruction for the answer to be worked out; at some time during the next day, the answer flashes into their mind. I think this also happens unconsciously to a person who is worrying about some thing and mentally reviews the problem before going to sleep, without any intention of making use of the subconscious ability to work out an answer like a computer during the night.
It is not, therefore, the control of mind over matter that I am Seeking
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to bring about. That is already being handled as a matter of routine by the autonomic mind in its control of the functions of the body. It is the simpler, but equally elusive conscious contact with the autonomic mind that I am looking for.
Although I realized that words of command could do the job, I felt it would be much more effective to visualize clearly what I wanted to happen. I found with practice, and thanks, perhaps, to the experience I had had with various methods of meditation, that the visualization gradually became easier and it felt much more positive than just using words. However the words helped to direct the visualization and were rather carefully selected. For instance, during the hip programme, I wanted to get rid of certain restricting tissue around the joint and I called the cells forming this tissue 'abnormal'. This word carried the meaning that what was abnormal was an intruder, it was not included in the original plan for the organ, should not have been there and was harmful to the normal functioning of the joint. In addition, I found that, as with meditation, it assisted concentration and kept the whole process going in a sort of rhythm particularly if the breathing was tied in with the word and the visualization.
Accurate visualization coupled with concentration really puts the mind into the organ or part of the body that is to be treated, so that one can 'see' it as one can a well known face or room. My awareness was wholly centred on the hip joint and my mind could wander round the various parts, with as little difficulty as wandering around my house. It was in this way that I intended to make contact with the autonomic mind. On thinking it over, it seemed to me that we have to visualize whenever we take any action though we are not usually conscious of doing so. For instance, in opening a door, we visualize stretching out the hand and turning the handle. And only then do we act. It may be that the door doesn't open in this way, but has a latch to be lifted or perhaps a toggle to be pulled. However it has to be done, we have to see the necessary action mentally before carrying it out. I was therefore only carrying out the same procedure and I hoped that the autonomic mind would take the hint.
I felt that visualizing the autonomic mind's working environment would also employ another principle we use in our every day life. Two people learning the same language together, or playing a game, or undertaking any activity together, tend to be drawn mentally closer to
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one another.... I think it would be generally true to say that two people each getting closer to and more intimate with the same thing are inevitably brought mentally closer to each other. I was therefore trying to get intimate with the autonomic mind by being consciously attentive to what it was concerned with.
Although I am giving a separate name to the part of the mind that controls the involuntary processes of the body, namely the autonomic mind, it is not separate in any way from the conscious mind. It is simply mind. that is not manifesting in consciousness; once again only an apparent separation, an illusion of separateness brought about by the different ways in which mind manifests. There is a part of the autonomic mind that controls the functioning of every cell, part, and organ of the, body, though there are, of course, no divisions between these parts. During my treatment, my attention is directed to the autonomic mind concerned with the control and well-being of the hips, and, for convenience, I refer to these mentally as 'hip mind'. The reader will learn that I give orders for certain action to be taken by the red or white corpuscles, or more generally, by the scavenging cells: it would be impossible for my conscious mind to make contact with every corpuscle as it entered the organ being repaired, so the conscious mind must influence the programming which is controlled by the autonomic mind.
The new programming, or, in most cases, the programme which is being reinforced, is strongly visualized as already happening; the action of the desired programme is repeated regularly, the repetitions being coordinated with the breathing. This is not as difficult as it sounds. In fact, it comes quite naturally....
With this short description of the background thinking with which I had to work, I will take the reader straight into the problems I was facing with the arthritis in the hips. I shall have to go into the physiological and pathological situation in some detail, using some medical terms, but only where absolutely necessary to give the build-up of the visualization I wanted. The information I needed I obtained from Gray's Anatomy (35th edition) and some other text books all in the local reference library, and I cleared up some doubtful points with the help of medical friends who were sympathetic to what I was trying to do.
I must make it clear that I wanted the information for two specific reasons; first to be able to devise a programme which could remedy the
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defect; and equally important, to be able to visualize with a reasonable degree of accuracy the situation as it was and as it should be. I can't emphasize this too strongly because the whole success of the treatment depends on being able to visualize fixedly with a concentrated mind the programme one is desiring to induce the autonomic mind to take up. It is really a very simple project but the picture and programme must be right. The mistakes I made were all concerned with a faulty performance which did not take into account the actual physiological situation. Which is not easy to find out because many details of the body's functioning are not yet fully known or officially accepted. The reader will see that I had particular difficulty in discovering which veins had valves and which had not: I found out by results, but it would have been better if I had known the information beforehand. For any treatment to be successful, a highly detailed diagnosis by a competent doctor, and preferably a specialist, is essential. Otherwise, at best, the treatment will be frustrating and fruitless; at worst, dangerous....
The Hips: Treatment
I realized from the start that treating the hips was going to be a long business: the body would only do its healing in its own time and, for the drastic reconstruction that was required this would be a slow process. The gradual deterioration over twenty years had taken the joint a long way towards needing a 'tin hip' operation. The cartilaginous linings of the joint were obviously in a mess, and the restriction of movement was becoming severe.
I had learnt from my reading and from the orthopaedic surgeon the main places where disruption of the normal working of the hip takes place. The most obvious of these and where pain usually starts is in the cartilaginous linings. Here, either through wear and tear or other reasons, the cartilaginous cells deteriorate and become calcified or per haps disappear altogether, exposing the bone. The calcified tissue, in effect, introduces bone-like spurs known as osteophytes, or irregularities in the smooth surface of the lining which give rise to the sharp prickly pain that characterizes this kind of arthritis and makes movement so painful. There is also the possibility of the synovial membrane, the sheath that encloses the joint and secretes the lubricating synovial fluid, becoming hypertrophied, resulting in folds appearing, in which, once again, calcified tissue can develop.
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A third and later development is the restriction of movement in the limb brought about by fibrous growths from the rim of the acetabulum (the socket) forming lesions with the other part of the joint. These lesions are characterized by a dull sort of pain which is felt on extending the joint to the limit in most directions, and eventually in all. The pain is not so severe as that caused by the calcified tissue, partly because it is not sharp and sudden but heavy and gradual, but mainly because it depends on how much one tries to extend the limb against this restriction.
As far as my case was concerned, I knew that I had symptoms indicating the first and last of these defects. I could feel them, and had been shown the causes in the X-ray. But I had no idea whether I also had trouble with the synovial membrane — I doubt whether the X-ray would have shown this up. I had to be content with a plan to deal with what I knew was wrong and, if I was successful, see what was left.
There were, therefore, two main problems to tackle. The first was to get rid of the calcified tissue that had formed in the cartilage and possibly elsewhere in the joint. This cartilage exists over the contact points between the head of the femur, that is, the top of the bone that forms the ball of the hip joint, and the acetabulum, the socket in the hip. It happens also that bits of the calcified cartilaginous tissue become detached and then lodge anywhere in the joint. These spots of bone like tissue would have to be dealt with by the white blood corpuscles that would be circulating with the blood within the joint. In particular, the phagocytes, which have the remarkable ability of absorbing and disposing of solid waste matter and can deal with such things as decayed or dead bone. The leucocytes also have an equally versatile scavenging function. To ensure that there were enough of these white blood cells available to do the rather arduous job that I required, I considered it would be necessary, as a preliminary to the treatment proper, to increase the supply of blood to the hips. This, I thought, would be necessary for another purpose, and that was to enable the parts of the lining from where the calcified tissue was being removed, to receive the necessary nutrient to enable the cell population to be built up and the lining reconstituted. For this, more red blood corpuscles would be required as they carry the oxygen and other nutrient substances to the various parts of the body.
As well as the treatment of the damaged parts of the joint, I thought
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it would be necessary to increase the secretion of synovial fluid from the synovial membrane. This membrane envelops the joint and completely covers the junction between the head of the femur and the rim of the acetabulum. It performs also the useful function of providing the lubrication that is necessary for the smooth working of the joint. I had noticed at times that the joint felt sticky, as though the lubrication was insufficient, and this would obviously exacerbate the deteriorating condition of the joint. The synovial fluid also provides nutrient for the cartilaginous linings.
So these were the first priority tasks. To encourage the scavenging of all abnormal calcified tissue, and when this had been done, and only then, to replace it with new cartilaginous tissue in order to rebuild the lining. This would be done by programming an increase of the red blood cells to provide the additional nutrient for the cartilaginous cells and those forming the synovial membrane.
I was able to pinpoint many of the spots in the joint where calcified tissue had formed, and I spent a little time locating these as accurately as possible while I was walking, or sometimes making special movements to make them register. This became a feature during the treatment and, as the painful spots became fewer, I was able to concentrate the scavenging work on those that remained. There was one particularly stubborn spot which I judged to be just under the rim of the acetabulum at its upper and slightly rearward part. It took me a long time to have any effect on this annoying pain spot. I felt, at the time, that this was probably a piece of the cartilaginous tissue that had become detached and, possibly during movement in sleep, had found its way between the rim of the acetabulum and the lowest part of the head of the femur, where it would cause the maximum amount of pain; and this was, in fact, just what it was doing.
The next task was to deal with the fibrous growths that were causing the lesions and restricting the movements of the joint, and I realized that this was going to be quite a problem. If left to themselves, these growths will gradually reduce walking to a sort of shuffle and eventually the joint will become more or less locked. One could usually avoid pain by keeping the movement of the legs within the restriction imposed by these 'villi'. By exercising my legs while standing on my head every day, I had probably retained more movement than I otherwise would have done, but the restriction was gradually getting
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noticeably worse. It was these lesions, I presumed the orthopaedic surgeon referred to when he suggested that he would manipulate the joint under an anaesthetic.
I decided that my priorities would be as follows:
1. To increase the blood supply to the hips for the purposes given above.
2. To programme the white blood cells to remove the calcified tissue from the lining of the acetabulum and of the head of the femur, and wherever else it might have formed in the joint.
3. As a programme to be instituted later, I would tackle the lesions restricting the movement of the joint. For this I would have to experiment as I didn't know how to set about it.
In deciding to embark on this new departure in self-treatment, I was much encouraged by some remarks I read in a book by Lawrence E. Lamb, MD, entitled Get Ready for Immortality. Dr. Lamb is the Chief of Medical Sciences with the USAF School of Aerospace Medicine. In talking about arthritis, he says 'It is common to say that these joints become worn out. The theory of wear and tear, however, is in conflict with the general concept that protoplasm is able to replace itself.' And later he says 'If this is the case, learning to control the mechanism for turning on the instructions for regeneration and replacement should readily solve the problem of osteoarthritis and other degenerative problems of this nature in the body, making the wear and tear concept obsolete.'
'The same principle applies to loss of elastic tissue in the arteries. If this substance can be replaced with new elastic tissue/the arteries can literally be rejuvenated by simply recycling the cells on the master programme used in earlier years.'
I started out with a programme at the beginning of July 1975. At that time I hadn't yet run into the prostate problem so that the whole procedure took from twenty minutes to half an hour. I followed a regular routine and started as near as possible to 6 pm every day.
The treatment itself started with ten minutes of increasing the supply of blood to the hips, but after a couple of months, this period was reduced to five minutes. I mentally drew the blood into the hips through the various arteries supplying them, and tried to feel a surge of blood coming in. Later I realized that it is not necessary to 'see' the increased blood flowing in particular arteries, but just to hold the picture of
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increased blood flowing freely through an artery. This was done on breathing in, at the same time saying mentally 'increase blood supply', or 'draw in blood'. Sometimes I felt that one was more effective than the other. On breathing out, the additional blood was sensed as bathing the whole joint. The breathing was kept slow and even and this programme was maintained for ten minutes; nothing else was allowed to come into my mind except this routine.
Programme 1
Breathe in.
Mind picture.
Breathe out.
Draw blood along arteries into the hips.
See blood flowing through expanded arteries.
Distribute blood to every part of the joint.
See blood "feeding" all parts of the joint.
The next part was to programme the white blood cells to seek out, identify, absorb and remove all abnormal calcified tissue. The word 'abnormal' was used in order that the idea should be communicated to the autonomic mind that this tissue was something that should not have been allowed to form. This whole instruction was held in the mind as I wandered mentally round the joint, first the lining of the head of the femur, then the much more extensive lining of the acetabulum. Where I was able to pinpoint a spot of calcified tissue by the pain, I gave a special instruction to the phagocytes to get busy on absorbing and removing it. This way of making use of the pain to direct the scavenging cells accurately to a spot where calcified tissue has to be removed is a very important backer-up of the mind picture direction, and I used it when ever possible. Although I am sure that as much accuracy as possible is helpful in the visualizing process, and although I had not seen a picture of the lining with spots of calcified tissue showing, I had some idea of what these small bone-like excrescences might look like. That was quite good enough.
The way in which the phagocytes remove an unwanted bit of waste matter is easy to picture. They put out what are known as pseudopods which envelop the object and draw it into the centre of the cell. The cell then moves off along the lymphatic system to a node where the object is dealt with and removed. The leucocytes have the ability to ingest unwanted tissue etc., but the heavy dismantling jobs are left to
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the phagocytes and the macrophages.
This programme was followed by one to encourage the red blood cells to offer nutrient to the cells of the cartilaginous linings. In my view, this exchange, which takes place between the blood and tissue cells, and which may be triggered off chemically or even electrically, must primarily be a matter for the autonomic mind, and therefore, always supposing that I am right in thinking that contact between the conscious and autonomic mind is possible, the way in which the task is performed can be influenced by the conscious mind.
I think this view could have very important developments which I began to realize a couple of months later. If it is possible to increase the nutrient supplied to a cell, then it should be possible, by exactly the same means, to prevent nutrient being supplied to any cell that it was desired to eliminate.
What I was trying to do in this programme for the red blood cells was to put more emphasis on the preset programme already being con trolled by the autonomic mind. The same action was taken with the cells of the synovial membrane throughout the joint, as additional nutrient was required to increase the secretion of the synovial fluid. During this part of the programme, the increase was both 'seen' and 'felt' mentally, coursing between the opposing linings of the head of the femur and the acetabulum.
These programmes for the removal of the calcified tissue and the 'feeding' of the cartilaginous and synovial cells were as follows:
Programme 2
Call in white blood cells.
See the small white cells entering the joint.
Seek out and remove all abnormal calcified tissue.
See cells enveloping the hardened tissue.
During the out breath, the mind had to visit all parts of the joint in turn where calcified tissue was known to have formed, or could be felt. It took two or three breaths, of course, to cover the whole joint.
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Programme 3
Call in red blood cells.
See additional blood in arteries supplying joint.
Transfer nutrient to cartilagenous and synovial cells.
See red cells closing in on cartilage and synovial membrane.
These are rather more difficult mind pictures, but I found it possible to settle on something that fitted in with the idea of 'feeding'. The longer mental instruction during breathing out necessarily requires the exhalation to be rather slower. The two should be timed so that when exhalation is finished, the mental command ends. If this is found not to be possible, then the wording should be changed to make it so.
The three programmes usually occupied me some thirty minutes, though at the beginning of the treatment, time wasn't really the criterion but rather the degree of concentration brought to each programme. I found that this varied from day to day and from programme to programme. Where the visualization was easier, concentration was better. Sometimes I found that I had short catnaps, losing perhaps a minute or so. These were just ignored, or if the time was more than this, I added the equivalent of the loss on to the end of the programme. I found it necessary quite often to change both the wording and the mind picture of the programme because these didn't result in satisfactory concentration. They both had to be as simple as possible, too many words or too much action in the picture seemed to impair concentration. When I had had more experience of the programmes, I decided to stick to a regular ten minute schedule whatever the concentration had been like.
At this time, I didn't try to do anything about the villi that were restricting movements of the joint, partly because I hadn't yet decided how to tackle them, but mainly because I felt that I had enough on my plate dealing with the first priorities. I was glad to be able to start the programme off in July because we were going away for a fortnight's holiday to Spain in September when fitting in the programme would, I knew, be difficult. But having got used to it at home, I did in fact find it possible to fit in some time lying on my bed after swimming and even while lying in the sun. Concentration was, of course, much more
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difficult, but it was better than nothing and got me ready for a real big push when I returned home.
It was in October that I started the prostate programme and, as I consider an hour in the chair was sufficient, I had to trim the hip programme to fit in. I had decided to start working on the villi and thought I might try a simple programme of rejection. I knew that the body was able normally to reject foreign bodies, and that this was a major problem in human transplants. I knew, too, that the rejection mechanism could be inhibited by drugs, but was not at all clear how this worked. A simple clear instruction to the autonomic mind to reject this fibrous tissue was as far as I could go and I hoped that this very competent part of my mind would know what to do.
So the new hip programme worked out as follows:
Three deep breaths followed by a very short period of easy gentle breathing.
Five minutes increasing the blood supply to the joints.
Ten minutes calling in the white blood corpuscles.
Ten minutes calling in the red blood corpuscles.
I started in with a five minute programme on the villi to see whether it was a possible one.
Programme 4
Reject abnormal fibrous cells.
See the cells around the rim of the acetabulum.
Clear away abnormal fibrous tissue.
See this tissue being removed.
This was admittedly far from easy, but anyone with a better picture making mind than mine would not, I think, find it too difficult.
On my return from holiday, this programme continued smoothly and was fitted in after the one required for the prostate, which I regard ed as more urgent. I found little change necessary for some time, but I did have a new idea about getting rid of the villi. It occurred to me that the reaction of the autonomic mind might be 'these fibrous cells are home grown. They have been treated in the same way as all other tissues. They are one of us; they are not foreign bodies; this chap (the conscious mind) is making a mistake.' I don't mean, of course, that the
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reaction came to me in those words, but that I felt they might well express the attitude of the autonomic mind to the instructions I was giving, so that there would be no result. And, as a matter of fact, after a couple of months of this programme, there was no result. Until I was able to study the mechanism of rejection fully, I would have to think of some plausible way of getting round this difficulty. Obviously, simply using the idea of rejection wasn't going to get me anywhere. I would have to be more specific.
I argued that, for nutrient to be passed from red blood cells to the tissues, two conditions would have to be satisfied. The blood cells must offer or make available the nutrient, and the tissue must be conditioned to receive it. It doesn't matter what kind of affinity exists between the two when the exchange takes place, whether it is purely chemical, partly chemical and partly electrical, or whether it is made up of some physical property, both parties must be 'willing'. I would therefore try to bypass the question of rejection by simply programming instructions to the red blood cells not to offer nutrient to these abnormal fibrous tissues. This would be done by mentally using words such as 'withhold', or 'deny', and holding the strong mind picture of nothing passing between the red blood cells and the tissue. These instructions would, of course, have to be taken up by the autonomic mind and incorporated into its programme of maintenance and repair. This was the best I could do until I had further information on the normal functioning of the rejection system. I still felt that it should be possible to initiate a programme which could make use of this mechanism to remove any unwanted cells from the body if one could convince the autonomic mind that they were intruders and harmful. I decided, however, not to do anything about such a programme yet.
By May 1976 the treatment was definitely proving successful. All the prickly pain of the calcification had gone and it was no longer difficult to sleep in any position. The restrictions caused by the villi seemed to be better but here I realized that I would have to work on both the muscles and the ligaments before the full movement could be restored. The ligaments had most certainly shrunk because of the restriction imposed by the arthritis, and the muscles, too, had lost their full activity. The best way of restoring normal conditions, I thought, would be by swimming. Unfortunately, when I went to the magnificent indoor pool at Woking, I found that the temperature was kept at 87 ! I couldn't
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believe it when the attendant told me this, but she tested it for me and she was correct. Later in the year, the open air pool would be available, but swimming was always difficult there because of the large crowds..
On June 2nd I decided to try out a programme to instruct the red blood cells to withhold nutrient from the fibrous cells forming the villi. This was a rather difficult visualization, but I finally settled on 'seeing' the red blood cells giving the fibrous tissue cells the cold shoulder, so to speak, and holding the strong impression of no contact between them. I suppose it took me three or four days before this began to feel right.
This programme is given below.
Programme 5
Red blood cells.
Simply see the red cells where the presence of the villi could be felt.
Withhold nutrient.
Nothing passing between cells and villi.
It was on June 10th on a visit to London that I first noticed trouble brewing. I had quite considerable pain in the right hip which seemed to me fairly definitely to be coming from the rim of the acetabulum. It was a new feature and a different sort of pain to any I had felt before. I wondered whether it could be caused by inflammation resulting from (he accumulation of cell debris. This was a problem that I had had with the prostate, and in that programme, it continued right up to the end. I decided to introduce a ten minute programme of calling in the white blood cells to take away the cell debris resulting from the starved fibrous tissue cells. After a week of this, I returned to the original programme of withholding nutrient from the fibrous cells. The clearing up programme was as follows:
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Programme 6
See white cells round the villi.
Clear away cell debris.
White cells absorbing decayed villi.
The full programme at this time was therefore as follows:
5 minutes increasing blood supply to the hips.
5 minutes scavenging calcified tissue in the joint.
5 minutes scavenging starved cells of the villi.
5 minutes denying nutrient to the calcified tissue of the joint.
5 minutes denying nutrient to the fibrous cells of the villi.
But by July 5th I was in trouble again. The pain, which was mainly in the right hip, was severe and I was quite certain that it was not coming from inside the joint. I could only conclude that the rim of the acetabulum where most of the fibrous tissue cells could be, was once again suffering from too much demolition and insufficient removal of rubbish. I was obviously finding it very difficult to maintain a balance between these two operations. But I was surprised that the programme to restrain the red blood cells from supplying nutrient could have had such a quick response, and further, that the white blood cells and macrophages were unable to compete with whatever decomposition was taking place. By July 9th, there had been little improvement and I was considering abandoning the programme, but finally decided to stick it out for a few more days. The pain was sufficient to prevent me sleeping for two or three hours after going to bed, but I had been fairly used to that and I felt it was important to see whether a scavenging programme could handle the difficulty. Four days later I stopped the programme of withholding nutrient and sat back to think again.
The next record I have is of an improvement on July 20th. The inflammation had subsided and the pain had gone. However I didn't think it wise to restart the starving out programme but decided to try the same programme that had been successful with the calcified tissue, that is, to instruct the white blood cells to remove these fibrous formations. The reason I hadn't done this before was because I felt that they were too well established. They were exercising squatters' rights and I
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might have difficulty in persuading the autonomic mind that they were, in fact, trespassers. The programme I now adopted was:
Programme 7
See white cells round villi.
Villi being removed.
With the word abnormal was associated the mental impression of 'intrusion'; the thought that these bodies were not an integral part of the joint, not included in the original 'blueprint' to which the 'hip mind' had worked, and were harmful. If this programme could work, I would avoid having to find the balance that had eluded me with the other programme.
By July 30th, there had been no return of pain and the programme seemed to be going smoothly. It was now reduced to ten minutes of calling in the white blood cells to remove the fibrous tissue. On August 5th, I introduced a modification of this programme that I thought would make it more effective. At each in-breath, I fixed the attention on a small part of the rim of the acetabulum starting at the upper end, and visualized the white blood cells getting to work on the villi in this particular part. With the next in-breath, my attention moved clockwise forty-five degrees round the rim of the acetabulum and called in the white blood cells to this new area, and on the out-breath, put them to work on ingesting and absorbing the fibrous cells. This procedure was continued right round the acetabulum until my attention arrived at the top again. I found it an interesting exercise and it gave me much more scope for visualizing.
At the same time that I was concentrating on these fibrous lesions, I started physically stretching the ligaments and muscles of the groin and thigh. This I did by standing with my legs astride and stretching them as far as I reasonably could get them. This exercise very quickly produced results and it was exciting to see so much long-lost movement being recovered. I still continued with the exercises carried out standing on my head.
As far as I could tell, the completion of the treatment was now confined
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to continuing the removal of the villi, with possibly a final programme of calling in the red blood cells to complete the rebuilding of the cartilaginous linings. These must now be maintained without risk of further deterioration, and a good resolute programme for the suppliers of nutrient should give the autonomic mind the right incentive to keep the red blood cells up to scratch. On the physical side, I would continue with the stretching exercise and I hoped to get a lot of swimming during a holiday in Elba in September.
That was in August, and much depended on the effect of a strenuous swimming programme. I planned to do between one and two miles a day whenever the weather allowed it. Unfortunately we arrived in Elba to find bad weather, and this continued for three or four days. It was too rough to swim and there was a lot of rain. This is most unusual for Elba in September, but then 1976 had been a most unusual year all over Europe. During the period of the holiday, I was faced with two new problems, one of which I expected, but the other was a definite set back. The expected one was the result of building up the muscles by swimming. I found that I got a hang-over from this that affected my walking and gave me notice of muscles that I didn't know existed! But by the time we left this had become less noticeable.
The other development was the reappearance of sharp pain right on the rim of the acetabulum that was quite certainly caused by calcified tissue, most probably a well established osteophyte. I had had previous difficulty with this particular spot and, on more than one occasion, had to give it special attention. But for some time now, I reckoned that I had got rid of it and was puzzled to understand how it had suddenly reappeared. I wondered whether it was possible that the removal of the villi had uncovered a patch of calcified tissue which, because of the restriction of movement caused by villi, had not previously been causing trouble. I had to be content with this explanation and reintroduce a programme directed at the particular spot. It is always easier to direct the white blood cells to a scene of action when one can feel exactly where the scene is! I continued this programme after arriving back in England and I realized that, as long as I was removing villi, there might be other places where calcified tissue would enter the picture and these would have to be tackled by sending white blood cells to deal with them.
I was now on the home straight and really didn't expect any more
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difficulty with the programmes. It remained to continue with the programme of removing the villi — because there was obviously a lot of tissue to be removed — and to deal with the appearance of any calcified tissue. Some of this might, of course, have not been completely removed by earlier programmes, and a cleaning-up programme would have to be kept in hand to deal with these. In addition, I got going on another cleaning-up programme to make sure that the cartilaginous linings had been fully rebuilt. This programme was:
Programme 8
Increase blood supply to hips.
As before.
Rebuild and strengthen cartilaginous linings.
See blood 'feeding' cartilaginous linings.
There were no further difficulties and the only programme I kept going was the feeding of the cartilaginous linings, in order to make quite sure that they were strong and healthy. I didn't worry any more about the villi and the restrictions. I reckoned that now the joint was completely free of pain, the villi would gradually be removed by the much greater action of the legs in walking and moving about generally. I was content to leave this to the sort of adjustment that the body is usually so good at.
By a lucky chance, a good friend of ours. Paddy from South Africa, came to stay for a few days. The last time I had seen here, she had had serious arthritis of the right hip,' and had recently had the operation to replace the joint with a steel ball and socket. Paddy showed me the principal exercise she had been given to do immediately after the operation until the whole complex of muscles, tendons, and ligaments had returned to normal. It seemed to me that this was just the exercise I was looking for and I started doing it daily right away.
A description of the exercise is as follows — it is done preferably lying down. The muscles of the leg from the knee to the thigh and the buttocks are contracted suddenly in a sort of jerk and then relaxed. The contraction is most noticeable in the quadriceps, but all the muscles of the thigh and round the joint take part. I did this one hundred times each day and it made a tremendous difference to the whole leg. It was
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like going for a walk lying down! I found soon after starting the exercise that I could stand on my right leg without the difficulty of balancing that I had had before. I still continue to do the exercise and shall do so whenever the opportunity presents itself because I realize that, in a man of my age (73), muscle tone takes longer to recover than in a younger person.
Looking back at the situation of pain and restriction that I was in before I started this treatment, I felt that the really rather small amount of effort and all the various problems I had encountered had been well worth it. As the patient, I can only say how relieved I am to have got rid of such a crippling complain, and in such a simple manner.
With Hindsight
On the whole, the hip programme proved to be much more straight forward than that of the prostate, although there was a number of different operations that had to be carried out, and in the right order. It would have been no good to rebuild the cartilaginous linings on top of the established calcified tissue, so that the timing was important. But apart from the one mistake I made (really not so much a mistake as a programme I had to abandon because I realized that it was introducing complications that were difficult to overcome) it had none of the backing and filling that occurred in the case of the prostate. It was necessarily a long programme, not like the prostate which should have been a relatively short one but was lengthened by continually having to stop and sometimes to step back.
I am sure I was right to start with a programme to increase the blood supply to the hips. In fact, in all cases where healing and repair have to be carried out, such a programme would be advisable — except when the part concerned is inflamed. With the next step, the removal of the calcified tissue, I was lucky. I am still not sure why the body considers these obstructions as foreign and removes them, when this appears to be against the general rule. However, I understand that the white blood cells do remove previous kinds of waste from the body without anti bodies being produced to give them the incentive to do so. Where is the dividing line between legitimate waste that can be removed and invading tissue like the villi, or the fatty tissue of the prostate that can't? I suspect that it may be a simple matter of finding the right instruction, which may have to be preceded by a programme of definite education.
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I am sure that this is a point which further work in self-treatment will make clear. And I hope it will be possible to develop a clear-cut technique for convincing the autonomic mind that certain tissue is foreign, an intruder, and should be removed.
I hope, too, that it will be possible to develop standard programmes that have been well tested, are simple, and can be taught to a patient with the minimum of medical instruction. It would always be advisable, I think, to provide the patient with a picture of the situation he is to deal with, but I believe this could be a good deal more diagrammatic than I was insisting on for my own treatment. As I mentioned earlier, I found that getting all the detail I could, assisted my poor visualizing ability. Most people, I believe, would need only a diagrammatic sketch.
With hindsight, then, I would start with a programme to increase the blood supply to the hips, starting with ten minutes and reducing this to five after the first fortnight (Programme 1). I would also start straight away with a programme to remove the calcified tissue from wherever it might be in the joint (Programme 2), and here one must learn to pin point spots of pain so as to be able to direct the white blood cells accurately. This programme must necessarily continue for sometimes as this is where the main deterioration of the joint has taken place. There may also be corrugation of the bony surface itself that would have to be dealt with first, by removing the bony spurs, and then by rebuilding the bony structure to a smooth finish. I was fortunate in that the deterioration didn't appear to have reached this stage. The programme to remove the calcified tissue should continue until all this kind of pain has been eliminated, and the patient should not feel frustrated because it takes a long time. It is a big job and must be done very thoroughly.
I am not now convinced that it is necessary to initiate a programme to clear away the fibrous tissue forming lesions round the joint. As I have already suggested, I believe that the increased freedom of movements of the hips will gradually eliminate these. But if they are severe, it might be advisable to start the process of getting rid of them with the programme. I finished up with, that is, one where I mentally went round the rim of the acetabulum by regular steps, at each stage getting the white blood cells to remove the fibrous tissue. The programme would look like this:
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Programme 9
See white blood cells at twelve-o-clock on the rim of the acetabulum.
Clear away fibrous tissue.
See villi being removed, shift the attention 45° clockwise round the rim of the acetabulum and repeat.
After each breath in and out, move a further 45° round the rim. I did two complete circuits which took about ten minutes.
Finally, I think there should be a finishing exercise, increasing to ten minutes the programme for additional blood supply to the joint, in order to encourage both red and white blood cells to give final touches to the rebuilding of the joint. This is Programme 8.
From E.H. SHATTOCK, Mind Your Body,
Turnstone Press Ltd, U.K. 1979
Anterior exposure of the right hip joint
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A Severe Case of Hypocondria
There were four of us — George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency. We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were — bad from a medical point of view I mean, of course.
We were all feeling seedy, and we were getting quite nervous about it. Harris said he felt such extraordinary fits of giddiness come over him at times, that he hardly knew what he was doing; and then George said that he had fits of giddiness too, and hardly knew what he was doing. With me, it was my liver that was out of order. I knew it was my liver that was out of order, because I had just been reading a patent liver-pill circular, in which were detailed the various symptoms by which a man could tell when his liver was out of order. I had them all.
It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with in its most virulent
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form. The diagnosis seems in every case to correspond exactly with all the sensations that I have ever felt.
I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch — hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into — some fearful, devastating scourge, I know — and, before I had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms", it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.
I sat for a while frozen with horror; and then in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever — read the symptoms — discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it — wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus's Dance — found, as I expected, that I had that too — began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically — read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid's knee.
I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and I grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boy hood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me.
I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk round me, and, after that, take their diploma.
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Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all.
Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made it a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.
I had walked into that reading-room a happy healthy man. I crawled out a decrepit wreck.
I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:
"Well, what's the matter with you?"
I said:
"I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is not the matter with me. I have not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I have got."
And I told him how I came to discover it all.
Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it — a cowardly thing to do, I call it — and immediately afterwards butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out.
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I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's, and handed it in. The man read it, and then handed it back.
He said he didn't keep it.
"You are a chemist?"
He said:
"I am a chemist. If I was a co-operative stores, and family hotel combined, I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me."
I read the prescription. It ran:
—"1 lb. beefsteak, with 1 pt. bitter beer every 6 hours.
— ten-mile walk every morning.
— bed at 11 sharp every night.
— And don't stuff up your head with things you don't under stand...." .
From Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men in a Boat
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Leo Tolstoy
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Natashas Illness
Leo Tolstoy was born in 1828 in an aristocratic Russian family. He wrote between 1863 and 1877 his two great masterpieces. War and Peace and Anna Karenina. War and Peace is an immense panorama of Russian life in the early nineteenth century, including Napoleon's 1812 invasion of Russia. The two major characters, Andrey and Pierre exemplify the major moral conflicts of the book: between romantic self-realisation and service to others. The inner tensions Tolstoy dramatized so powerfully in these two books began to overwhelm him personally. He underwent a shattering psychological crisis which culminated in 1879. Tolstoy emerged from his agonized quest for the purpose of life with the simple answer that it was "to do good". He renounced organized religion, government and private property in favour of a faith in the individual's divinely given power to discern the good, a conviction derived from his perception of the simple faith of the peasants and from his study of Christ's words.
Most of Tolstoy's writing during the last 30 years of his life was devoted to advance these ideas. Tolstoy also attempted to bring his own daily life into conformity with his philosophical views. He gave up smoking and drinking, became a vegetarian, dressed in peasant clothes and engaged in manual labours. He died in 1910, at the age of 82.
The brief extract from War and Peace given below is an example of the remarkable psychological insight of Tolstoy. It also conveys a certain amount of scepticism about medical authority.
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On receiving news of Natasha's illness, the countess, though not quite well yet and still weak, went to Moscow with Petya and the rest of the household, and the whole family moved from Marya Dmitrievna's house to their own and settled down in town.
Natasha's illness was so serious that, fortunately for her and for her parents, the consideration of all that had caused the illness, her conduct and the breaking off of her engagement, receded into the background. She was so ill that it was impossible for them to consider in how far she was to blame for what had happened. She could not eat or sleep, grew visibly thinner, coughed, and, as the doctors made them feel, was in danger. They could not think of anything but how to help her. Doctors came to see her singly and in consultation, talked much in French, German, and Latin, blamed one another, and prescribed a great variety of medicines for all the diseases known to them, but the simple idea never occurred to any of them that they could not know the disease Natasha was suffering from, as no disease suffered by a live man can be known, for every living person has his own peculiarities and always has his own peculiar, personal, novel, complicated disease, unknown to medicine — not a disease of the lungs, liver, skin, heart, nerves, and so on mentioned in medical books, but a disease consisting of one of the innumerable combinations of the maladies of those organs. This simple thought could not occur to the doctors (as it cannot occur to a wizard that he is unable to work his charms) because the business of their lives was to cure, and they received money for it and had spent the best years of their lives on that business. But, above all, that thought was kept out of their minds by the fact that they saw they were really useful, as in fact they were to the whole Rostov family. Their usefulness did not depend on making the patient swallow sub stances for the most part harmful (the harm was scarcely perceptible, as they were given in small doses), but they were useful, necessary, and indispensable because they satisfied a mental need of the invalid and of those who loved her — and that is why there are, and always will be, pseudo-healers, wise women, homeopaths, and allopaths. They satisfied that eternal human need for hope of relief, for sympathy, and that something should be done, which is felt by those who are suffering. They satisfied the need seen in its most elementary form in a child, when it wants to have a place rubbed that has been hurt. A child knocks itself and runs at once to the arms of its mother or nurse to have the
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aching spot rubbed or kissed, and it feels better when this is done. The child cannot believe that the strongest and wisest of its people have no remedy for its pain, and the hope of relief and the expression of its mother's sympathy while she rubs the bump comforts it. The doctors were of use to Natasha because they kissed and rubbed her bump, assuring her that it would soon pass if only the coachman went to the chemist's in the Arbat and got a powder and some pills in a pretty box for a rubble and seventy kopeks, and if she took those powders in boiled water at intervals of precisely two hours, neither more nor less.
What would Sonya and the count and countess have done, how would they have looked, if nothing had been done, if there had not been those pills to give by the clock, the warm drinks, the chicken cutlets, and all the other details of life ordered by the doctors, the carrying out of which supplied an occupation and consolation to the family circle? How would the count have borne his dearly loved daughter's illness had he not known that it was costing him a thousand rubbles, and that he would not grudge thousands more to benefit her, or had he not known that if her illness continued he would not grudge yet other thousands and would take her abroad for consultations there, and had he not been able to explain the details of how Metivier and Feller had not understood the symptoms, but Frise had, and Mudrov had diagnosed them even better? What would the countess have done had she not been able sometimes to scold the invalid for not strictly obeying the doctor's orders?
"You'll never get well like that," she would say, forgetting her grief in her vexation, "if you won't obey the doctor and take your medicine at the right time! You mustn't trifle with it, you know, or it may turn to pneumonia," she would go on, deriving much comfort from the utterance of that foreign word, incomprehensible to others as well as to her self..
What would Sonya have done without the glad consciousness that she had not undressed during the first three nights, in order to be ready to carry out all the doctor's injunctions with precision, and that she still kept awake at night so as not to miss the proper time when the slightly harmful pills in the little gilt be,, had to be administered? Even to Natasha herself it was pleasant to see that so many sacrifices were being made for her sake, and to know that she had to take medicine at certain hours, though she declared that no medicine would cure her and that it was all nonsense. And it was even pleasant to be able to show,
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by disregarding the orders, that she did not believe in medical treatment and did not value her life.
The doctor came every day, felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, and regardless a of her grief-stricken face joked with her. f But when he had gone into another room, to which the countess hurriedly followed I; him, he assumed a grave air and thought ( fully shaking his head said that though ; there was danger, he had hopes of the ( effect of this last medicine and one must wait and see, that the malady was chiefly mental, but... And the countess, trying to conceal the action from herself and from him, slipped a gold coin into his hand and always returned to the patient with a more tranquil mind.
The symptoms of Natasha's illness were that she ate little, slept little, coughed, and was always low-spirited. The doctors said that she could not get on without medical treatment, so they kept her in the stilling atmosphere of the town, and the Rostovs did not move to the country that summer of 1812.
In spite of the many pills she swallowed and the drops and powders out of the little bottles and boxes of which Madame Schoss who was fond of such things made a large collection, and in spite of being deprived of the country life to which she was accustomed, youth prevailed. Natasha's grief began to be overlaid by the impressions of daily life, it ceased to press so painfully on her heart, it gradually faded into the past, and she began to recover physically.
_________________________________
Extracts from Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
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In the 1850's, the Scottish explorer David Livingstone described his feelings when a lion attacked him: "He caught my shoulder as he sprang, and we both came to the ground.... Growling horribly close to my ear, he shook me as a terrier does a rat. The shock... caused a sort of dreaminess in which there was no sense of pain nor feeling of terror."
Livingstone's reaction was not unlike that of soldiers observed a century later in World War II. Field surgeons often marvelled at the fortitude of the many badly wounded men. At first, doctors theorized that the soldiers seemed oblivious to pain simply because they were glad to be alive. But many years — and scientific experiments — later, pain specialists came to recognize that Livingstone and the young soldiers were experiencing what is now called stress-induced analgesia: pain relief that results from extreme stress. The explanation for this phenomenon is that the brain at times manufactures its own opiates. These pain relievers and mood elevators, the endorphins and enkephalins, are similar to morphine, only much more powerful.
Under normal circumstances, however, the human body is all toosusceptible to pain. Pain is the price man pays for his extremely complex biological system; its function is to alert the body to damage to its tissue.
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How does pain work? If you accidentally touch a hot stove, your hand will be well away from it before you realize why you didn't pick up the kettle after all. A danger signal has shot up nerve pathways in the arm and into the spinal corde. The sensory channels of the spinal cord transmit the message to the brain. At the same time, another message is going back down the motor channels which run from the spinal cord to the muscles: "Take evasive action!" The body cannot afford to waste a fraction of a second, so immediate is the threat.
This automatic sequence of perception and reaction is known as a reflex arc and there are thousands of such arcs all over the body. Pain therefore is a necessary protective mechanism, yet it is hardly a reliable guide. Many dangerous tumors, for instance, cause no pain at all until the damage done to the body is beyond repair. It is now generally accepted that while pain from the skin, muscles, joints and tendons travel through the central nervous system, pain arising from the viscera (internal organs) is conveyed by the autonomic nervous system, a much less effective system. The viscera have few nerve fibers, and lack access to the sophisticated interpreter faculties in the brain. Pain from the viscera can be located only in a vague and imprecise way. When the brain is unable to place pain accurately, it tends to "make do" with the nearest point from which it has experienced pain before. In this way, visceral pain arising beneath an old scar will seem to be coming from the scar itself.
Another freakish manifestation of pain is the phenomenon of the "phantom limb", which may follow amputation. The limb is felt to be there, and may appear to become shorter and shorter as time passes, until a man who has lost an arm may feel as if his hand is sprouting from his shoulder. This phenomenon is still not well understood, but it is thought that some parts of the body are very richly represented in the brain and therefore not easy to "forget". In the above example, it seems that the severed nerve trunks in the shoulder can still transmit pain signals to the brain. The brain interprets these as coming from the arm and hand which the nerves used to serve. The arm is gradually "forgotten", while the "memory" of the highly sensitive hand and fingers lingers on.
Since earliest times men have tried to alleviate pain. Hundreds of years ago, Arab doctors hit on the idea of anesthetizing a patient's arm by packing it in snow. And for at least 2500 years, Chinese acupuncturists have been inserting fine needles into the body at certain precise
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points to bring relief from illness and pain. In modem times, allopathic doctors use a huge variety of anaesthetics, usually injected close to the affected area. General anaesthetics, by contrast, are used to put much of the nervous system out of action, and prevent the brain from perceiving pain. Until recently, most people assumed that an anesthetized person was unconscious and had no idea what was going on. That is no longer a safe assumption. Researchers have discovered that unconscious patients can hear. As a result, a casual remark by the surgeon in the operative room can have a strong impact on the patient and affect his chances of recovery.
In pharmaceutical companies the world over an intensive search is going on for the perfect pain reliever. But because so many pain relieving drugs have undesirable side effects, notably addiction, there is a corresponding trend nowadays to look for safer ways to help people control pain. This includes relaxation, meditation, psychotherapy, hypnosis, and the age-old practice of acupuncture.
*
**
After great pain a formal feeling comes
After great pain a formal feeling comes —
The nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions — was it He that bore?
And yesterday — or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow —
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
Emily Dickinson 1830 — 1886
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On the positive effect of laughter on health
... While scientists had earlier studied the general effects of laughter on the body, Cousins' experience has spurred the medical profession to new efforts to find out how beneficial laughter is in aiding the body's healing process. Studies have shown that humour has a profound connection with physiological states and that a surprising number of patients have laughed themselves back to health, as Cousins did, or at any rate have exploited their sense of humour as a positive, adaptive response to their illnesses. In fact, a link between humour and longevity has been established.
Further, laughter has a definite anaesthetic effect, revealing a kind of inverse relationship between humour and pain. A good guffaw is accompanied by a loss of muscle tone — the opposite condition of pain-producing muscle tension — which explains why muscle-related pains may temporarily disappear with a hearty laugh. Other studies suggest that laughter triggers the brain to release catecholamine hormones, which in turn cause the release of endorphins, the body's natural painkillers. Some scientists, however, feel that enjoying a good giggle is in itself a psychological distraction from the pain and does not require a physiological explanation.
Other physical spin-offs from laughter are the healthful massage it gives the internal organs (Cousins calls it "internal jogging"), the diffusion of anger that results from it — preventing heart attacks in some cases — and the alleviation of depression which may possibly play a role in reducing the risk of cancer. Stanford University's Dr. William F. Fry, one of the world's leading laughter researchers, has discovered that during a hearty laugh the muscles are activated, the heart rate increases and respiration is amplified with an increase in oxygen exchange — all similar to the desirable effects of athletic exercise. Facial muscles as well as those of the arms, legs and stomach, all get a workout as do the diaphragm, the thorax, and the circulatory and endocrine systems....
____________________________
Extracts from "Jest for the health of it"
by Jacqueline Singh, Span Magazine — September 1989
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Man-made drugs versus self-healing capacities of the body
Isn't buying a drug as good as making it? Not by a long shot. The so-called active ingredient in a man-made drug contains very little know-how compared to the original chemical produced by the body. It would almost be fairer to call the drug an inert ingredient.
The reason for this lies at the level of our cells. The outer membrane of each cell, or the cell wall, is outfitted with numerous sites called receptors. The cell wall itself is smooth, but these receptors are "sticky" — they are made of complex molecular chains whose last links are open-ended, each one waiting for another molecule to come along and bind with it. In other words, receptors are like keyholes into which only very specific keys will fit. For a drug to work — whether morphine, Valium, digitalis, or almost anything else — it must be the key that fits some precisely chosen receptor on the cell wall and no other.
The hormones, enzymes; and other biochemicals produced by our bodies have superb knowledge about which receptors they should fit into. The molecules themselves actually seem able to pick and choose among various sites — it is uncanny to follow their tracks under an electron microscope as they make a beeline to where they are needed. Also, the body can release hundreds of different chemicals at a time and orchestrate each one with regard to the whole.
If you hear a hot rod backfire on the street outside your window and jump in your chair, your instantaneous reaction is the outcome of a complex internal event. The trigger for the event is a burst of adrenaline from your adrenal glands. Carried into the bloodstream, this adrenaline signals reactions from your heart, which starts to pump blood faster; from your blood vessels, which contract and force up your blood pressure; from your liver, which puts out extra fuel in the form of glucose; from your pancreas, which secretes insulin so that more glucose can be metabolized; and from your stomach and intestines, which immediately stop digesting food so that more energy can be shunted elsewhere.
All this activity, happening at a furious pace and with powerful effects everywhere in your body, is coordinated by the brain, which uses the pituitary gland to guide many of the hormonal signals just described, not to mention various other chemical signals that go racing down your neurons to focus your eyes, prick up you ears, jerk your back muscles upright.-.and swivel your head in alarm.
To make this whole reaction happen and then to make it go away again (for the body, unlike a man-made drug, knows how to-reverse every one of these processes just as neatly as it began), the same key-m-the-lock mechanism is employed everywhere. It is all-so deceptively simple, yet if-you
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attempt to duplicate this event with a drug, the results are nowhere near as precise, orderly, and beautifully orchestrated. In fact, they are chaotic. Injecting adrenaline, insulin, or glucose separately into the body gives it a crude jolt. The chemicals immediately flood all the receptor sites without coordination from the brain. Instead of talking to the body, they assault it with single-minded insistence. Even though the chemical make-up of adrenaline is identical no matter where it is derived, the critical ingredient of intelligence must be present; otherwise, the drug's action is a mockery of the real thing....
The frustrating reality, as far as medical researchers are concerned, is that we already know that the living body is the best pharmacy ever devised. It produces diuretics, painkillers, tranquilizers, sleeping pills, antibiotics, and indeed everything manufactured by the drug companies, but it makes them much, much better. The dosage is always right and given on time; side effects are minimal or nonexistent; and the directions for using the drug are included in the drug itself, as part of its built-in intelligence.
____________________________________________
Extracts from Deepak Chopra, M.D., Quantum Healing,
(pp.42 to 45), Bantam Books, New York 1989
The head of a bronze statue
used for teaching acupuncture
(Korea, 15th century)
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Main Systems of Healing
— Acupuncture
Acupuncture is a therapy based on the principle that there is a nervous connection between the organs of the body and the body surface. It works on the basis that all types of diseases produce tender areas at certain points on the body which disappear when the disease is cured. These points are called acupuncture points. According to the Chinese who invented Acupuncture a few millennia BC, there are up to 1000 points. They further classified these points into twelve main groups according to lines on the body surface called meridians. Each meridian is named after one important organ which it is affecting.
The Chinese believe that the life forces of the body — Chi — circulate along those meridians. Disease is a disturbance in the circulation of Chi. Acupuncture aims at reestablishing the correct flow of energy in the body.
The method for cure is a stimulation of the skin in the proper places. The essential skills in acupuncture are diagnosis (generally done by taking pulses) and precise knowledge of the points to be stimulated to obtain results. The most common technique makes use of small needles which can be applied on many points at the same time.
—Ayurveda
Ayurveda may well be the most ancient system of medicine. Its name means "the science of life" and covers sacred texts which are an addition to an ancient Indian sacred writings called "Rig-veda". It has been practised all over India for millennia and continues to be widely used up to the present days.
There is a complex philosophical background of Ayurveda which reflects a total vision of the human being and its place in the universe. According to Ayurveda, human beings can be classified into three main categories describing types of qualities, Tamas, Rajas and Sattva. Further their bodies belong to different main types, Pitta (bile), Kapha (phlegm) and Vayu (wind). All these elements and more have to be taken into account to reach proper diagnosis and decide upon cure.
An ayurvedic doctor treats a patient as a whole as he sees him as a unique individual subject to unique imbalances in his life. Ayurvedic drugs and medicines have been developed since so long that there are a very large number of them, but their common characteristic is that they aim at assisting the body's healing powers. The patient is supposed to take a very active part in the cure through such methods as fasting, baths, applications to the skin, cleansing diets, enemas etc...
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—Allopathy
Allopathy is the dominant system of medicine in the modern world. Its principle (as manifest in the name) is to treat disease with "contrary" remedies (opposite to Homeopathy treating with "like" remedies).
Allopathy has known an enormous development with thousands of different remedies available all over the world, and a considerable research effort to develop new remedies or improve upon old ones. There have been also great advances in medical technologies with the introduction of ever more sophisticated machines for diagnosis and treatments.
While progress and even triumphs of modern allopathic medicine, particularly in surgery and diagnostic techniques, are very real, there is a growing concern about enormous costs, excessive consumption of drugs, pernicious side effects of many allopathic treatments and a tendency to extreme specialization which tend to neglect the specificity and wholeness of each human being.
—Homeopathy
Homeopathy is a system of medicine based on the principle that agents which produce certain signs and symptoms in health also cure those signs and symptoms in disease.
Homeopathy was developed in the early 1800's by a German physician, Samuel Hahnemann. It is a medical practice based on an attempt to "let like cure like". Poison ivy, for example, causes rashes, so homeopathic doctors treat rashes with poison ivy. Onions cause crying and a watery discharge from the nose, therefore onions may be used to treat colds.
Homeopathic remedies are discovered through a practice called proving. In proving, various substances are given to healthy people and their effects care fully observed. Homeopaths believe that a drug which produces symptoms of a disease in a healthy person can help cure a person who has that disease. Hahnemann taught that medicines become more potent as they are diluted, and therefore most homeopathic remedies are administered in minute doses. This also helps to minimize harmful side effects.
In essence, homeopathy depends on the idea that the body contains its own healing properties and defence mechanisms and that these can be activated to eliminate illness. Hahnemann wrote "All diseases are, in fact, diseases of the whole organism" and he considered them to be a sign that the vital force in the human organism was out of balance.
Homeopathy is a "whole person medicine". Homeopaths usually make a detailed case history for each patient, including many physical symptoms but also psychological aspects.
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— Naturopathy
Naturopathy is a way of treating illnesses which works on the principle that healing depends upon the action of natural healing forces present in the human body and nature.
The concept of the healing power of nature is very ancient. It certainly goes back to the time of Hippocrates in 400 BC as Hippocrates himself seems to have been one of the first to realize the importance of nature's own healing powers. To him disease appeared not purely as a malady but also, by no means least, as an exertion, an effort of the body to reestablish the disturbed equilibrium of the function. Recovery is thus shown to be the work of Nature, whose healing powers alone, or supplemented by medical aid, achieve the aim.
Naturopathy is a form of medicine practised widely throughout the world although it is not always called by this name. It is basically concerned with discovering and removing the root cause of disease whether it be chemical (from faulty eating, drinking, breathing or elimination), mechanical (spinal malalignment, muscular tension, stiff joints or bad posture) or psychological. A patient's symptoms help a naturopath to arrive at diagnosis. What he tries to do is to treat the patient and not his symptoms. Naturopaths work on the principle that acute disease is simply a manifestation of the healing forces' efforts to get the body back to normal.
A naturopath is really a teacher more than a doctor. Most are not medically trained but do undergo a long and technical training. His training is aimed at enabling him to assess a patient and then to make suggestions as to what he should do in order to rid himself of his ailments and prevent future ones.
So by all the means at their disposal naturopaths encourage the patient to restore balance and wholeness to his life.
—A few other healing methods
Besides these main systems there are many other types of healing methods. We describe briefly a few below :
Bach Flower remedies
Illness comes from imbalances provoked by negative states of mind, which can be cured by the positive vital power of flowers (somewhat similar to homeopathy in principle).
Radiesthesia methods
Use of divining to diagnose disease and select remedies.
Reflexology
An ancient Chinese and Indian diagnostic and therapeutic system in which the soles of the feet and the palms of the hands are massaged deeply.
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Sound therapy
The use of sound waves to heal.
Herbalism
The internal and external use of plant-based remedies to heal virtually any human ailment.
Alleviation and cure of disease by a human being, with or without special methods such as imposition of hands, prayers, mantras, etc.
Macrobiotics
A personal philosophy involving wholesome behaviour and eating. Food, seen as central to life, is selected according to the antagonistic but complementary principles, Ying and Yang.
In the recent years, particularly in Western societies, there has been a great development of new methods and techniques of healing, often derived from Eastern philosophy, methods and techniques. This is a field in constant and rapid development which reflects an increase concern with holistic health and mind/body harmony.
A Tibetan physician giving healing herbs to one of his patients
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First Aid
In a book dedicated to the body, we felt that First Aid had its place. If readers take care to go through the following pages, most may realize that we tend to be quite ignorant of even the basics of the initial care to be given in certain specific circumstances. It is another aspect of the common ignorance about the functioning of the body which makes most of us only think of calling a doctor in such circumstances as described below. We should certainly do that, but a little bit of correct knowledge about what should be done — or often enough, what should be avoided — can make the difference between life and death until the doctor arrives.
— Fever
When a person's body temperature is too hot, we say he has a fever. Fever itself is not a sickness, but a sign of many different sicknesses. However, high fever can be dangerous, especially in a small child. When a person has a fever:
• Uncover him completely.
Small children should be undressed completely and left naked until the fever goes down. Never wrap the child in clothing or blankets.
» To wrap up a child with fever is dangerous. Fresh air or a breeze will not harm a person with fever. On the contrary, a fresh breeze helps lower the fever.
• Also take aspirin to lower fever. Small children can be given either acetaminophen (paracetamol), children's aspirin, or a piece of a regular aspirin tablet.
• Anyone who has a fever should drink lots of water, juices, or other liquids. For small children, especially babies, drinking water should be boiled first (and then cooled).
• When possible, find and treat the cause of the fever.
— Very High Fevers
A very high fever can be dangerous if it is not brought down quickly. It can cause fits (convulsions) or even permanent brain damage (paralysis, mental slowness, epilepsy, etc.). High fever is most dangerous for small children. When a fever goes very high (over 40° c), it must be lowered at once:
• Strip the person naked.
• Fan him.
• Pour cool water over him, or put cloths soaked in cool water on his chest and forehead. Fan the cloths and change them often to keep them cool. Continue to do this until the fever goes down (below 38°c).
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• Give him plenty of cool water to drink.
• Give a medicine to bring down fever. Aspirin works well. Dosage (using 300 mg. adult tablets):
→ Persons over 12 years: 2 tablets every 4 hours
→ Children 6 to 12 years: 1 tablet every 4 hours
→ Children 3 to 6 years: 1/2 tablet every 4 hours
→ Children under 3 years: 1/4 tablet every 4 hours
If a person cannot swallow aspirin, grind it up, mix it with some water, and put it up the anus as an enema or with a syringe without the needle. Some doctors consider acetaminophen (paracetamol) safer than aspirin for small children.
» If a high fever does not go down soon or if fits (convulsions) begin, continue cooling with water and seek medical help at once.
—Shock
Shock is a life-threatening condition that develops when the body's blood pressure drops dangerously low. It can result from great pain, a large burn, losing a lot of blood, severe illnesses, dehydration, or severe allergic reaction. Signs of shock:
→ weak, rapid pulse (more than 100 per minute)
→ "cold sweat": pale, cold, damp skin
→ mental confusion, weakness, or loss of consciousness.
What to do to prevent or treat shock:
At the first sign of shock; or if there is risk of shock:
• Have the person lie down with his feet higher than his head.
(However, if he has a severe head injury put him in a "half-sitting" position)
• If the person feels cold, cover him with a blanket.
• If he is conscious, give him warm water or other lukewarm drinks.
• If he is in pain, give him aspirin or another pain medicine.
• Keep calm and reassure the person.
If the person is unconscious:
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• Lay him on his side with his head low, tilted back and to one side.
• If he seems to be choking, pull his tongue forward with your finger.
• If he has vomited, clear his mouth immediately. Be sure his head is low, titled back, and to one side so he does not breathe vomit into his lungs.
• Do not give him anything by mouth until he becomes conscious.
• If you or someone nearby knows how, give intravenous solution (normal saline) at a fast drip.
• Seek medical help fast.
—Loss of consciousness
Common causes of loss of consciousness are:
Drunkenness, a hit on the head (getting knocked out), shock, poisoning, fainting (from fright, weakness, etc.), heat stroke, stroke, heart attack. If a person is unconscious and you do not know why, immediately check each of the following:
→ 1. Is he breathing well? If not, tilt his head way back and pull the jaw and tongue forward. If something is stuck in his throat, pull it out. If he is not breathing, use mouth-to-mouth breathing at once.
→ 2. Is he losing a lot of blood? If so, control the bleeding.
→ 3. Is he in shock (moist, pale skin; weak, rapid pulse)? If so, lay him with his head lower than his feet and loosen his clothing.
→ 4. Could it be heat stroke (no sweat, high fever, hot, red skin)? If so, shade him from the sun, keep his head higher than his feet, and soak him with cold water (ice water if possible).
If there is any chance that the unconscious person is badly injured: It is best not to move him until he becomes conscious. If you have to move him, do so with great care, because if his neck or back is broken, any change of position may cause greater injury.
Look for wounds or broken bones, but move the person as little as possible.
Do not bend his back or neck.
» Never give anything by mouth to a person who is unconscious.
— When something gets stuck in the throat
When food or something else sticks in a person's throat and he cannot breathe, quickly do this:
• Stand behind him and wrap your arms around his waist,
• put your fist against his belly above the navel and below the ribs,
• and press into his belly with a sudden strong upward jerk. This forces the air from his lungs and should free his throat.
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Repeat several times if necessary.
If the person is a lot bigger than you, or is already unconscious, quickly do this:
• Lay him on his back.
• Sit over him towards the feet, with the heel of your lower hand on his belly between his navel and ribs.
• Make a quick, strong upward push.
If he still cannot breathe, try mouth-to-mouth breathing.
— Drowning
A person who has stopped breathing has only 4 minutes to live! You must act fast!
Start mouth-to-mouth breathing at once — if possible, even before the drowning person is out of the water, as soon as it is shallow enough to stand. If you cannot blow air into his lungs, when you reach the shore, quickly put him with his head lower than his feet and push his belly as described above. Then continue mouth-to-mouth breathing at once.
» Always start mouth-to-mouth breathing at once before trying to get water out of the drowning person's chest.
What to do when breathing stops: Mouth-to-mouth breathing
Common causes for breathing to stop are:
→ something stuck in the throat
→ the tongue or thick mucus blocking the throat of an unconscious person
→ drowning, choking on smoke, or poisoning
→ a strong blow to the head or chest
→ a heart attack.
A person will die within 4 minutes if he does not breathe.
»If a person stops breathing, begin mouth-to-mouth breathing immediately.
Do all of the following as quickly as you can:
• Step 1: Quickly remove anything stuck in the mouth or throat. Pull the tongue forward. If there is mucus in the throat, quickly try to clear it out.
• Step 2: Quickly lay the person face up, tilt his head way back, and pull his jaw forward.
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• Step 3: Pinch his nostrils closed with your fingers, open his mouth wide, cover his mouth with yours, and blow strongly into his lungs so that his chest rises. Pause to let the air come back out and blow again. Repeat about 15 times per minute. With newborn babies, breathe very gently about 25 times per minute. Continue mouth-to-mouth breathing until the person can breathe by himself, or until there is no doubt he is dead. Sometimes you must keep it up for an hour or more.
— Emergencies caused by heat
Heat cramps:
In hot weather people who work hard and sweat a lot sometimes get painful cramps in their legs, arms, or stomach. These occur because the body lacks salt.
Treatment: Put a teaspoon of salt in a litre of boiled water and drink it.
Heat Exhaustion:
Signs: A person who works and sweats a lot in hot weather may become very pale and weak and perhaps feel faint. The skin is cool and moist. The pulse is rapid and weak.
Treatment: Have the person lie down in a cool place/raise his feet, and rub his legs. Give salt water to drink: 1 teaspoon of salt in a litre of water. (Give nothing by mouth while the person is unconscious.)
Heat Stroke:
Heat stroke is not common, but is very dangerous. It occurs especially in older people and alcoholics during hot weather.
Signs: The skin is red, very hot, and dry. Not even the armpits are moist. The person has a very high fever, sometimes more than 42° C. Often he is unconscious.
Treatment: The body temperature must be lowered immediately. Put the person in the shade. Soak him with cold water (ice water if possible) and fan him. Continue until the fever drops. Seek medical help.
Differences between "Heat exhaustion" and. "Heat stroke"
Heat exhaustion: sweaty, pale, cool skin, large pupils, no fever, weakness
Heat stroke: dry, red, hot skin, high fever, the person is very ill or unconscious
—How to control bleeding from a wound
• Raise the injured part.
• With a clean cloth (or your hand if there is no cloth) press directly on the wound. Keep pressing until the bleeding stops. This may take 15 minutes or sometimes an hour or more.
If the bleeding cannot be controlled by pressing on the wound, and if the person
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is losing a lot of blood, do the following:
• Keep pressing on the wound.
• Keep the wounded part as high as possible.
• Tie the arm or leg as close to the wound as possible between the wound and the body.
• Tighten enough to control the bleeding.
• For the tie, use a folded cloth or a wide belt; never use thin rope, string, or wire.
Precautions
→ Tie the limb only if bleeding is severe and cannot be controlled by pressing directly on the wound.
→ Loosen the tie for a moment every half hour to see if it is still needed and to let the blood circulate. Leaving it too long may damage the arm or leg so much it must be cut off.
→ Never use dirt, kerosene, lime, or coffee to stop bleeding.
→ If bleeding or injury is severe, raise the feet and lower the head to prevent shock.
— How to stop nose-bleeds
• Sit quietly.
• Pinch the nose firmly for 10 minutes or until the bleeding has stopped. If this does not control the bleeding:
• Pack the nostril with a wad of cotton, leaving part of it outside the nose. If possible, first wet the cotton with hydrogen peroxide or vaseline.
• Then pinch the nose firmly again. Do not let go for 10 minutes or more. Leave the cotton in place for a few hours after the bleeding stops; then take it out very carefully.
If a person's nose bleeds often, smear a little vaseline inside the nostrils twice a day. Eating oranges, tomatoes, and other fruits may help to strengthen the veins so that the nose bleeds less.
In older persons especially, bleeding may come from the back part of the nose and cannot be stopped by pinching it. In this case, have the person hold a cork, corn cob, or other similar object between his teeth and, leaning forward, sit quietly and try not to swallow until the bleeding stops. (The cork helps keep him from swallowing, and that gives the blood a chance to clot.)
— Cuts, Scrapes, and small wounds
»Cleanliness is of first importance in preventing infection and helping wounds to heal.
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To treat a wound:
• First, wash your hands very well with soap and water.
• Then wash the wound well with soap and boiled water.
When cleaning the wound, be careful to clean out all the dirt. Lift up and clean under any flaps of skin. You can use a clean tweezers or other instruments to remove bits of dirt, but always boil them first to be sure they are sterile. If possible, squirt out the wound with boiled water in a syringe or suction bulb.
Any bit of dirt that is left in a wound can cause an infection.
» NEVER put animal or human feces or mud on a wound. These can cause dangerous infections, such as tetanus.
» NEVER put alcohol or tincture of iodine directly into a wound; doing so will damage the flesh and make healing slower. Use soap and water.
Large cuts: how to close them:
A recent cut that is very clean will heal faster if you bring the edges together so the cut stays closed.
Close a deep cut only if all of the following are true:
→ the cut is less than 12 hours old,
→ the cut is very clean, and
→ it is impossible to get a health worker to close it the same day.
Before closing the cut, wash it very well with boiled water and soap. If possible, squirt it out with a syringe and water. Be absolutely sure that no dirt is left hidden in the cut.
There are two methods to close a cut:
1) "Butterfly" bandages of adhesive tapes
Fold a piece of adhesive tape in the middle, cut a piece on each side of the fold. After unfolding the piece of tape, press the sides of the cut together and carefully place the adhesive tape, making sure that the shorter middle part is on the cut.
2) Stitches or sutures with thread
To find out if a cut needs stitches see if the edges of the skin come together by themselves. If they do, usually no stitches are needed.
To stitch a wound:
• Boil a sewing needle and a thin thread (nylon or silk is best) for 10 minutes.
• Wash the wound with boiled water and soap, as has been described.
• Wash your hands very well with boiled water and soap.
• Sew the wound like this:
Make the first stitch in the middle of the cut, and tie it closed.
Make enough other stitches to close the whole cut.
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• Leave the stitches in place for 6 to 12 days (on the face 6 days; the body 8 days; the hand or foot 12 days). Then remove the stitches: cut the thread on one side of the knot and pull the knot until the thread comes out.
» Warning: Only close wounds that are very clean and less than 12 hours old. Old, dirty, or infected wounds must be left open. Bites from people, dogs, pigs, or other animals should also be left open. Closing these can cause dangerous infections.
» If the wound that has been closed shows any signs of infection, remove the stitches immediately and leave the wound open.
Bandages:
Bandages are used to help keep wounds clean. For this reason, bandages or pieces of cloth used to cover wounds must always be clean themselves. Cloth used for bandages should be washed and then dried with an iron or in the sun, in a clean, dust-free place.
If possible, cover the wound with a sterile gauze pad before bandaging. These pads are often sold in sealed envelopes in pharmacies. Or prepare your own sterile gauze or cloth. Wrap it in thick paper, seal it with tape, and bake it for 20 minutes in an oven. Putting a pan of water in the oven under the cloth will keep it from charring.
» It is better to have no bandage at all than one that is dirty or wet.
If a bandage gets wet or dirt gets under it, take the bandage off, wash the cut again, and put on a clean bandage.
» Caution: Be careful that a bandage that goes around a limb is not so tight it cuts off the flow of blood.
Many small scrapes and cuts do not need bandages. They heal best if washed with soap and water and left open to the air. The most important thing is to keep them clean.
— Infected wounds: how to recognize and treat them
A wound is infected if:
→ it becomes red, swollen, hot, and painful,
→ it has pus,
→ or if it begins to smell bad.
The infection is spreading to other parts of the body if:
→ it causes fever,
→ there is a red line above the wound,
→ or if the lymph nodes become swollen and tender. Lymph nodes (often called "glands") are little traps for germs that form small lumps under the skin when they get infected.
Swollen lymph nodes behind the ear point to an infection on the head or scalp,
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often caused by sores or lice.
Swollen nodes below the ear and on the neck indicate infections of the ear, face, or head (or tuberculosis).
Swollen nodes below the jaw indicate infections of the teeth or throat.
Swollen nodes in the armpit indicate an infection of the arm, head, or breast (or sometimes breast cancer).
Swollen nodes in the groin indicate an infection of the leg, foot, genitals, or anus.
—Treatment of infected wounds:
• Put hot compresses over the wound for 20 minutes 4 times a day. Hold an infected hand or foot in a bucket of hot water with soap or potassium permanganate (1 teaspoon to a bucket). .
• Keep the infected part at rest and elevated (raised above the level of the heart).
• If the infection is severe or the person has not been vaccinated against tetanus, use an antibiotic like penicillin.
» Warning: If the wound has a bad smell, if brown or grey liquid oozes out, or if the skin around it turns black and forms air bubbles or blisters, this may be gangrene. Seek medical help fast.
—Burns
Prevention:
Most burns can be prevented. Take special care with children:
→ Do not let small babies go near a fire.
→ Keep lamps and matches out of reach.
→ Turn handles of pans on the stove so children cannot reach them.
Minor burns that do not form blisters (1st degree):
To help ease the pain and lessen damage caused by a minor burn, put the burned part in cold water at once. No other treatment is needed. Take aspirin for pain.
Bums that Cause Blisters (2nd degree):
Do not break blisters.
If the blisters are broken, wash gently with soap and boiled water that has been cooled. Sterilize a little vaseline by heating it until it boils and spread it on a piece of sterile gauze. Then put .the gauze on the burn.
If there is no vaseline, leave the bum uncovered. Never smear on grease or butter.
» It is very important to keep the burn as clean as possible. Protect it from dirt, dust, and flies.
If signs of infection appear — pus, bad smell, fever, or swollen lymph nodes — apply compresses of warm salt water (1 teaspoon salt to 1 litre water) 3 times a
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day. Boil both the water and cloth before use. With great care, remove the dead skin and flesh. You can spread on a little antibiotic ointment such as Neosporin. In severe cases, consider taking an antibiotic such as penicillin or ampicillin. Deep Burns (3rd degree) that destroy the skin and expose raw or charred flesh are always serious, as are any burns that cover large areas of the body. Take the person to a health centre at once. In the meantime wrap the burned part with a very clean cloth or towel.
If it is impossible to get medical help, treat the burn as described above. If you do not have Vaseline, leave the burn in the open air, covering it only with a loose cotton cloth or sheet to protect it from dust and flies. Keep the cloth very clean and change it each time it gets dirty with liquid or blood from the burn. Give penicillin.
» Never put grease, fat, hides, coffee, herbs, or feces on a burn.
Special precautions for very serious burns:
→ Any person who has been badly burned can easily go into shock because of combined pain, fear, and the loss of body fluids from the oozing burn. Comfort and reassure the burned person. Give him aspirin for the pain and codeine if you can get it. Bathing open wounds in slightly salty water also helps calm pain. Put 1 teaspoon of salt for each litre of boiled (and cooled) water.
→ Give the burned person plenty of liquid. If the burned area is large (more than twice the size of his hand), make up the following drink: To a litre of water add half a teaspoon of salt and half a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda. Also put in 2 or 3 tablespoons of sugar or honey and some orange or lemon juice if possible. The burned person should drink this as often as possible, especially until he urinates frequently.
→ It is important for persons who are badly burned to eat foods rich in protein. No type of food needs to be avoided.
Burns around the joints:
When someone is badly burned between the fingers, in the armpit, or at other joints, gauze pads with vaseline on them should be put between the burned surfaces to prevent them from growing together as they heal. Also, fingers, arms, and legs should be straightened completely several times a day while healing. This is painful but helps prevent stiff scars that limit movement.
— Broken bones (fractures)
When a bone is broken, the most important thing to do is keep the bone in a fixed position. This prevents more damage and lets it mend.
Before trying to move or carry a person with a broken bone, keep the bones from moving with splints, strips of bark, or a sleeve of cardboard. Later a plaster
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cast can be put on the limb at a health centre, or perhaps you can make a "cast" according to local tradition.
Setting broken bones:
→ If the bones seem more or less in the right position, it is better not to move them — this could do more harm than good.
→ If the bones are far out of position and the break is recent, you can try to 'set' or straighten them before putting on a cast. The sooner the bones are set, the easier it will be.
Broken thigh bone:
A broken upper leg often needs special attention. It is best to splint the whole body and to take the injured person to a health centre at once.
Broken necks and backs:
If there is any chance a person's back or neck has been broken, be very careful when moving him. Try not to change his position. If possible, bring a health worker before moving him. If you must move him, do so without bending his back or neck. For instructions on how to move the injured person, see below. Broken ribs
These are very painful, but almost always heal on their own. It is better not to splint or bind the chest. The best treatment is to take aspirin — and rest. It may take months before the pain is gone completely. A broken rib does not often puncture a lung. But if the person coughs blood or develops breathing difficulties, use antibiotics (penicillin or ampicillin) and seek medical help.
Broken bones that break through the skin (compound fractures):
Since the danger of infection is very great in these cases, it is always better to get help from a health worker or doctor in caring for the injury. Clean the wound and the exposed bone very thoroughly with boiled water. Never put the bone back into the wound until the wound and the bone are absolutely clean.
Splint the limb to prevent more injury.
If the bone has broken the skin, use an antibiotic immediately to prevent infections: penicillin or ampicillin in high doses.
» Caution: Never rub or massage a broken limb or a limb that may possibly be broken.
How to move a badly injured person:
• With great care, lift the injured person without bending him any where.
• Have another person put the stretcher in place.
• With the help of everyone, place the injured person carefully on the stretcher.
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If the neck is injured or broken/put bags of sand or tightly folded clothing on each side of the head to keep it from moving.
— Strains and sprains
(bruising or tearing in a twisted joint) Many times it is impossible to know whether a hand or foot is bruised, sprained, or broken. It helps to have an X-ray taken.
But usually, breaks and sprains are treated more or less the same. Keep the joint motionless. Wrap it with something that gives firm support.
Serious sprains need at least 3 to 4 weeks to heal. Broken bones take longer. You can keep the twisted joint in the correct position for healing by using a homemade cast or an elastic bandage.
» Caution: If the foot seems very loose or "floppy" or if the person has trouble moving his toes, look for medical help. Surgery may be needed. To relieve pain and swelling, keep the sprained part raised high. During the first 24 hours, put ice or cold, wet cloths over the swollen joint. This helps reduce swelling and pain. Also take aspirin.
After 24 hours soak the sprain in hot water several times a day.
» Never rub or massage a sprain or broken bone. It does no good and can do more harm.
— Poisoning
Many children die from swallowing things that are poisonous. To protect your children, take the following precautions:
→ Keep all poisons out of reach of children.
→ Never keep kerosene, gasoline, or other poisons in cola or soft drink bottles, because children may try to drink them.
Some common poisons to watch out for:
→ rat poison-DDT, lindane, sheep dip, and other insecticides
→ medicine (any kind when much is swallowed; take special care with iron pills)
→ tincture of iodine, bleach and detergents, cigarettes, rubbing or wood alcohol
→ poisonous leaves, seeds, berries, castor beans, matches, kerosene, gasoline, petrol, lye.
Treatment: If you suspect poisoning, do the following immediately:
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• Make the child vomit. Put your finger in his throat, give him a tablespoon of syrup of ipecac, or make him drink water with soap or salt in it.
• Have the child drink all he can of milk, beaten eggs, or flour mixed with water. If you have it, give him a tablespoon of powdered charcoal. Keep giving him more milk, eggs, or flour and keep him vomiting until the vomit is clear.
» Caution: Do not make a person vomit if he has swallowed kerosene, gasoline (petrol), or strong acids or corrosive substances (lye).
Cover the person if he feels cold, but avoid too much heat. If poisoning is severe, look for medical help.
— Snakebite
When someone has been bitten by a snake, try to find out if the snake was poisonous or harmless. Their bite marks are different:
Fang marks of poisonous snake :
The bite of a poisonous snake leaves marks of the two fangs (and at rare times, other little marks made by the teeth). ,
Non-poisonous snake:
The bite of a snake that is not poisonous leaves only two rows of teeth marks, but no fang marks. People often believe that certain harmless snakes are poisonous. Try to find out which of the snakes in your area are truly poisonous and which are not. Contrary to popular opinion, boa constrictors and pythons are not poisonous. Please do not kill non-poisonous snakes, because they do no harm. On the contrary, they kill mice and other pests that do lots of damage. Some even kill poisonous snakes.
Treatment for poisonous snakebite:
• Stay quiet; do not move the part that has been bitten. The more it is moved, the more rapidly the poison will spread through the body. A per son who has been bitten on the foot should not walk, not even one step if it can be avoided. Carry him on a stretcher.
• Tie a cloth around the limb, just above the bite. Do not tie it very tight, and loosen it for a moment every half hour.
• With a very clean knife (sterilized in a flame) make a cut into each fang mark, about 1 cm. long and 1/2 cm. deep. Cut lengthwise only.
• Then suck (and spit out) the poison — for a quarter hour. Note: If more than a half hour has passed since the bite, do not cut or suck the bite. By then it may do more harm than good.
• If you can get the right kind of snakebite antivenin, inject it, being careful to follow the instructions that come with the medicine. Take all precautions to prevent allergic shock. In order for the antivenin to be of much help,
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it should be injected not more than 3 hours after the bite. (For some snakes, like cobras, it must be given very quickly.)
Note: Different parts of the world have different kinds of poisonous snakes which require different antitoxins (antivenins). Find out what antitoxins are available in your area. Be prepared!
» Have snakebite antitoxin ready and study how to use it ahead of time, before someone is bitten!
• If you can get ice, wrap pieces in thick cloth and pack these around the limb that was bitten.
• If signs of infection develop, use penicillin. Poisonous snakebite is dangerous. Send for medical help —but always do the things explained above at once.
Most folk remedies for snakebite do little if any good. Never drink alcohol after a snakebite. It makes things worse!
Scorpion sting:
Some scorpions are far more poisonous than others. To adults, scorpion stings are rarely dangerous. Take aspirin and if possible put ice on the sting. (Emetine injected around the sting greatly reduces pain.) For the numbness and pain that sometimes last weeks or months, hot compresses may be helpful. To children under 5 years old, scorpion stings can be dangerous, especially if the sting is on the head or body. In some countries scorpion antitoxin is avail able. To do much good it must be injected within 2 hours after the child has been stung. Give aspirin or acetaminophen for the pain. If the child stops breathing, use mouth-to-mouth breathing. If the child who was stung is very young or has been stung on the main part of the body, or if you know the scorpion was of a deadly type — seek medical help fast.
— Healing with water
Most of us could live without medicines. But no one can live without water. In fact, over half (57%) of the human body is water. If everyone living in farms and villages made the best use of water, the amount of sickness and death — especially of children — could probably be cut in half. For example, correct use of water is basic both in the prevention and treatment of diarrhoea. In many areas diarrhoea is the most common cause of sickness and death in small children. Contaminated (unclean) water is often part of the cause. An important part of the prevention of diarrhoea is to boil water used for drinking or for preparing foods. This is especially important for babies. Babies' bottles and eating utensils should also be boiled. Washing one's hands with soap and water after a bowel movement (shitting) and before eating or handling foods is just as important.
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The common cause of death in children with diarrhoea is severe dehydration, or loss of too much water from the body. By giving a child with diarrhoea plenty of water (best with sugar or honey and salt), dehydration can often be prevented or corrected.
»Giving lots of liquids to a child with diarrhoea is more important than any medicine. In fact, if enough liquid is given, no medicine is usually needed in the treatment of diarrhoea.
— Right and wrong uses of modem medicines
Some medicines sold in pharmacies or village stores can be very useful. Others are of no value. Also, people sometimes use the best medicines in the wrong way, so that they do more harm than good.
»To be helpful, medicine must be used correctly.
Many people, including most doctors and health workers, prescribe far more medicines than are needed and by so doing cause much needless sickness and death.
» There is some danger in the use of any medicine.
Some medicines are much more dangerous than others. Unfortunately, people sometimes use very dangerous medicines for mild sicknesses. Never use a dangerous medicine for a mild illness.
» Remember: medicines can kill
Guidelines for the use of medicine:
→ Use medicines only when necessary.
→ Know the correct use and precautions for any medicine you use.
→ Be sure to use the right dose.
→ If the medicine does not help, or causes problems, stop using it.
→ When in doubt, seek the advice of a health worker.
Note: Some health workers and many doctors give medicines when none is needed, often because they think patients expect medicine and will not be satisfied unless they get some. Tell your doctor or health worker you only want medicine if it is definitely needed. This will save you money and be safer for your health.
» Only use a medicine when you are sure it is needed and when you are sure how to use it.
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Part IV
There are three great miracles in regard to the human body. Intricacy, complexity and automatic coordination in the body under the guiding power of the brain is the first miracle. That human body automatically tends towards health is the second miracle. It is this miracle that has provided a vast field of exploration of the means and methods by which the natural and automatic processes of healing can be aided and accelerated. That the human body can be educated and its actual and latent capacities can be developed to amazing degrees of excellence is the third miracle.
In the first part, we have briefly attempted to portray the first miracle by emphasising the mystery of the human body. In the second and third parts, we dwelt upon, once again very briefly, the secrets of the miracles of health and healing. We shall now concentrate in this fourth part on the issues related to the education of the human body and how that education can bring out the hidden and astonishing potentialities of the human body.
Physical education must be viewed as a part of an integral programme of the education of the totality of the human personality. The human being is complex; apart from the body, the human being has also a vital aspect and a mental aspect; there are capacities of rational thought, ethical action and aesthetic imagination and creativity. There are also profounder and subtler presences and capacities of the Spirit. In ancient system of Indian education, a special emphasis was laid on
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the development of the powers and values of all the aspects of personality, physical, vital, intellectual, ethical, aesthetic and spiritual. But this integrality of education was not spread over all sections of society in equal proportions and with equal emphasis. Nonetheless, the concept of integral education played a great role in lifting the civilisation and culture of India to extraordinary heights. In the West, the records that we have of the system of education in ancient Greece permits us to believe that the concept of integrality was not only recognised, but was also practised in a great measure and by very large sections of the society. It is true that while the recognition of the Spirit is quite discernible in the ancient Greek thought, particularly in Socrates and Plato, yet a special and greater emphasis was laid on the powers of Reason and on the means and methods by which Reason can integrate the ethical, aesthetic, pragmatic and physical aspects of human personality. The impetus that was given in this great system of education to the development of the powers of the human body was so great that the gymnasium, chariot-racing and other sports and athletics had the same importance on the physical side as on the mental side the Arts and Poetry and the drama. It was Greece that made an institution of the Olympiad and through that institution the Greeks demonstrated some of the greatest peaks of excellence of the human body. In other ancient civilisations also, some kind of integral education was recognised and advocated. For the purposes of our book, we have restricted ourselves to brief expositions of Physical education in ancient India and in ancient Greece. For our object in this book is not to trace history but to underline a few aspects of the nature of the human body and its potentialities so as to generate and awaken interest and develop a few important insights in the subject through a presentation of selected writings or passages which, without being pedantic or scholarly, could serve as stimulating and instructive material.
In our times, with the re-establishment of the Olympiads as an inter national institution the ancient spirit of excellence in physical culture has been powerfully revived. This revival has been greatly aided by the contemporary science and technology, and we thus see a widespread participation in all parts of the world in the activities that aim at the refinement and excellence of the human body. Methods and organisation of physical education seem to have reached a kind of climax, and the spirit of excellence is happily invading upon increasing masses of
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people, particularly of the youth and children.
The Greek word for Excellence was: "Arete". It meant excellence, one could say all-round excellence, not only a maximum, but a harmony of perfection. When you pronounce this word, carefully, it casts a spell, it sounds like a mantra. It was really a magic word for the Greeks, who may have been, among all the many people on earth, past and present, one of the very few who had a quasi-religious feeling for what excellence represents. In our contemporary world, excellence, this elevating concept, does not seem so compelling any more. Other words, several levels below, appear to have crowded the minds and hearts of the majority, words like competition and success, which do not carry with them the flavour of pure seeking.
Today's world of sports and games is mostly an expression of the urge to competition and Success. Baron Pierre de Coubertin, when he put such energy into the revival of the ancient tradition of the Olympic Games, had a noble goal of establishing more securely peace between nations by making them to compete through sports and games rather than through wars. He probably would be horrified by the blatant commercialism and the display of money-power in modern Olympic Games. The concept of professional sportsman would also have shocked him, who thought that excellence in sports came primarily from a passion. For him a sportsman was above all an amateur, a word derived from the Latin word amor which means love.
Amateurism in sports has become a casualty of the formidable costs of training and participation in most high level competitions: top athletes are usually sponsored, either by private organisations or companies, or by governments. The modern means of mass-communication have added their powerful artificial weight as a large number of sports and games have a great entertainment value for a large public: top sportsmen become stars in a star system which further creates distortions in sport values. All these factors combine to create an atmosphere around sports and games which is quite remote from the dedicated pursuit of excellence that one would expect from a great athlete.
These handicaps created by modern society around sportsmen and athletes are hurdles on their way. It does not prevent them necessarily to reach true excellence. Many of those who have reached the summit in their specialities have displayed high human qualities such as courage, endurance, fearlessness, stoic composure in defeat, even
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heroism in fighting back the effects of accidents to the point of being able to return to competition. There have been remarkable examples of fair play, of sheer determination in the face of adversity. No one can ever become a top athlete without discipline, not only in training, but also in one's personal life: the demands on the body are such that indulgence is hardly allowed. Self-control is a necessity and con tributes to the development of character. Even emotions must be con trolled. An emotionally upset athlete is not likely to be able to summon the deepest resources in his body that he may require to reach the goal. All these are manifestations of high spirit and belong to the realm of excellence.
Excellence is always an offspring of will. Without this element of will, which issues essentially from spirit, excellence cannot be reached, whatever might be the natural gifts of a person. When an athlete feels, as they often do, that he or she has reached the limits of their endurance, what is it that pushes them beyond, if not sheer will and determination?
Besides will and determination, training is another crucial factor in the effort to reach excellence: it means often harsh discipline, tedious repetitions to master the minutest details of a starting position, of the last thrust of an arm, of the right posture, to the point where the body goes instinctively through the right sequence, as if not needing to be directed. Usually, training is directed by a coach: most success stories in athletic careers involve a deep relationship with a coach. The coach is often the person who perceives the potentiality in his trainee, who is able to be as hard a taskmaster as necessary and yet provide psycho logical comfort. The good coach has to be the arcane teacher: master of techniques, yet uniquely concentrated on one or few individuals whom he must understand deeply so as to adapt very precisely the rigour of techniques to the ever changing ways of his pupils.
Excellence does not belong only to top performers. To be the best does not necessarily mean to be able to reach the summit. Best means first in a category, excellent means one who works at the maximum point of his or her limits so as to transcend them. The best may not be excellent, and the excellent may not be rated, in a competition, as the first or the best. For excellence is not a concept relative to competition; it is a concept relative to an inner dimension. Excellence is produced when one acts beyond one's range of limitations, and this springs from
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the manifestation of the inner spirit which always burns upwards and pushes the individual towards what may be called perfect perfection.
Excellence can be a secret recognition within oneself: whatever the external results, inwardly one may know the real achievement. So many sport amateurs in the world stand no chances to reach the top or even secondary summits. Yet they go on practising and they too are exhilarated when they feel they have given their very best or when suddenly they break through a higher level of their sport or game. At any level, excellence requires a gathering of oneself and an all-out effort which carry their reward in themselves, even in the absence of public recognition. The results of such endeavours, when taken up by many and particularly the youths, translate into a vast training of entire populations towards more courage, hardiness, energetic action and initiative, as well as skill, steadiness of will or rapid decision and action. One could also say that the greater the recognition of excellence of athletes, the greater is the inspiration provided-to increasing numbers to enter the field.
The public image of many top performers is often misleading. To satisfy the superficial yet avid curiosity of the modern crowds, those details of their lives which are either sensational or at the level of gossip are being tossed around and much repeated to the point of casting a thick shadow on the real man behind. Yet it is not rare that, when one comes across deeper and more complete exposition of their lives and workings, largely different pictures begin to emerge. To take a few examples, on the face of it, not many people may see Arnold Schwarzenegger, the famous body-builder-cum-actor, as a seeker of something deeper than mundane success through his physical discipline. And yet, as may be seen in the few excerpts that we are presenting of his autobiography, there obviously is a quest, a striving towards mastery on the body, which, in its austerity, may resemble at times a Zen discipline! Muhammad All — alias Cassius Clay — is mostly known, besides his remarkable boxing career, for a highly egotist character. But again, despite this, reading an account of his life shows what courage, what determination he possesses. Even a lot of moral courage when he took the risk of defying the American authorities about the Vietnam war: he stood to lose everything. We felt that it was interesting to show through excerpts of his autobiography the real man of excellence behind the star.
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The few stories that we. are presenting in this part show, in one way or another, in one physical discipline or another, the kind of qualities that lead to excellence. Their common characteristic is to describe excellence in relation to bodily expression, whether in athletics, in body building, in boxing, or in games like cricket, or in more artistic manifestations like dance. Of course, ours is a very limited selection, but we do hope that it will convey what we find so deeply moving, namely the true flavour of excellence.
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India has had a long history of physical education, far more ancient than Greece. But in our times When the Olympic Games occurring every four years have become probably the biggest planetary event, most people know that the Games originated more than two thousand years ago in Greece. In addition, Greeks have given the Western world through many beautiful statues a keen sense of bodily perfection, an ideal of physical beauty unsurpassed to this day. There was such an emphasis on the importance of beauty and physical prowesses that some of the highest honours in Greek society were bestowed on athletes, to an extent unknown before and unsurpassed since.
India had already a very cultured society one or two millennia at least before the Greek awakening around 800 B.C. Yet, if ancient Greeks are easily perceived as very physical in their preoccupations, Indians in contrast are rather seen as metaphysical beings, hardly interested in material things. And it is indeed true that at a certain stage of the development of Indian culture, a deep influence has been cast on Indian collective psyche, bringing about a tendency to consider physical life as somewhat unreal.
Yet India is also well known as the native place of Yoga. Therefore knowledge about body and spirit and methods appropriate to perfection of body and spirit could evolve in India. Could this have happened in an environment generally indifferent to physical exercises and physical education?
We should remember the heroes that India gave to herself who rep resent not only great qualities of courage and valour but also of physical strength and excellence. Here is how Valmiki. describes Rama in the opening verses of the Ramayana:
There is a famous king by the name of Rama, born in the line of great Ikshwaku. He is of subdued sense and of exceeding might. He has mighty arms reaching to the
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knees. His throat is marked with three auspicious conch shell lines. He has high and broad shoulders, well-formed head, graceful forehead, strongest jaws, and deeply embedded collar bones. His eyes are large, and his colour is of soft lustrous green. He is neither too tall, nor very short, but well-formed and of symmetrical limbs. This highly beautiful and mighty Rama is supremely intelligent, and of eloquent speech.
Centuries later, Rama was described again by the poet Kalidasa echoing Valmiki's description:
Young, with arms long as the pole of the yoke, with sturdy shoulders, with a chest broad as a door panel, and a full broad neck, Raghu was above his father by the excellence of his body, and yet through his modesty he looked smaller.
Let us think of Arjuna, as described in Mahabharata:
Without him whose arms are long and symmetrical, and stout and like unto a couple of iron maces and round and marked by the scars of the bow-strings and graced with the bow and sword and other weapons and encircled with golden bracelets and like unto a couple of five-headed snakes, without that tiger among men the sky itself seemeth to be with out the sun.
Similarly for Bhima,
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whose body was beautifully proportioned, perfect specimen of manhood with his broad chest, slim waist and narrow hips.
and Kama,
tall like a golden palm tree capable of slaying a lion.
and many others, endowed with resplendent bodies, whose feats of strength, endurance and agility fill the pages of Mahabharata. These heroes are not abstract images, their bodies are not less praised than their commitment to dharma, their loyalty , their devotion or their generosity.
What was the secret of this superhuman force of body and mind which we see pulsating in the heroes of Ramayana and Mahabharata? What was, it that stood behind a civilization which produced such characters? Without a great and unique discipline involving a perfect education of body, soul and mind, this would have been impossible. We will see later how physical education was an integral part of the educational curriculum, but first it must be said that, at the basis of the ancient system of education was the all important discipline of Brahmacharya. Ancient Indians knew that, in the same way a wave is not separate from the ocean, man is not separate from the universe and the universal energy. The same force which moves in stars and planets moves in man. And they knew that the source of energy is spiritual but in the physical world the basis, the foundation on which it stands is physical. Man can increase his capacity as a receptacle of this energy. By the discipline of Brahmacharya, by keeping alive his burning aspiration for the knowledge of the Brahman, by having control over his desires and passions, by maintaining a receptive state of mind, he can retain and even largely increase energy in his soul, brain and body.
And indeed, if we turn to the ancient texts, the Vedas and Upanishads, we will see that the body, far from being regarded by spiritual seekers as an obstacle, something to be discarded, was considered as a receptacle for strength (bald}. Strength was among physical qualities the most praised:
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The existence of the world is dependent on strength. Be devoted to strength.
(Chhandogya Upanishad 7.8.1)
We find numerous prayers asking that strength might be given:
Equip our body with strength, O Indra, shower strength in our bulls. Shower strength for life on our progeny. You are verily the bestower of strength.
(Rig-Veda, 3.53.18)
Thou art splendour, bestow splendour on me.
Thou art potency, bestow potency on me.
Thou art strength, bestow strength on me.
Thou art virility, bestow virility on me.
Thou art force of action, bestow the same on me.
Thou art prowess, bestow prowess on me.
(Yajur-Veda, 19.9)
The teacher and his pupil are together united in an aspiration to become strong:
Together may we make unto us strength and virility.
(Taittiriya Upanishad, 2.1)
There was a lot of appreciation about those who were strong, stout and in possession of vigour and might. Up to twenty-two adjectives in Sanskrit can be used to praise the strong! The Rishis of the Vedas and
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Upanishads believed in a body with firm limbs, strong and hard like stone:
May our body become invincible like a rock.
(Rig-Veda6.75.12)
During the Vedic and the Upanishadic periods, and even later, there was an emphasis on the pursuit of an integral aim of life, which deter mined the discipline of integral education. Both the material and spiritual poles of the being had their place in this system. The ancient Sanskrit adage "Shariram adyam khalu dharma sadhanam" (a sound body is the veritable instrument of the pursuit of the ideal law of life) underlined the importance of physical education. And indeed it occupied an important place in the. educational curriculum. Among the large variety of sciences and arts offered to students, 3 Upavedas, or sciences, were in some way related to the education of the body: the Upaveda of Rigveda, called Ayurveda (the science and art of sustenance, protection and maintenance of long life); the Upaveda of
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Yajurveda, called Dhanurveda (science dealing with weapons of war and art of warfare); and the Upaveda of Samaveda, called Gandharvaveda (science of music, singing, dancing and dramatics).
When one studies Ayurveda, the real extent of the importance given by ancient India to the body, its proper development and its proper training, stands fully revealed. Ayurveda, also known as the science for prolongation of life, makes a thorough study of the human body, its different types and needs, and proposes accordingly specific exercises and methods for optimum body development, with emphasis on strength and agility. There are many important parts of Ayurveda, such as its science of nutrition and others; but presently we shall concentrate on its views on physical exercises. In Ayurveda, strength was considered as the basis of health and physical development. By the acquisition of strength, each and every internal organ, the heart, the brain, the lungs, the liver and the kidneys, the external senses, the limbs, ought to be able to perform their functions without any fault or disorder.
Exercise or Vyayama was considered the surest means of acquiring strength. Therefore, the knowledge of physical exercises, their nature, types, exact measure of exercise, benefits of exercise and even contra indications and many details about the science of exercise were included in the curriculum elaborated by Ayurveda. To give a small example of how detailed were the prescriptions, it was said, for instance, that the appearance of perspiration on the nose, the forehead, the joints of hands and legs and dryness in the mouth were the symptoms which indicated that one has taken exercise to the half extent of one's capacity. Exercise was also used by the ancient physicians as a modality of treatment, like in modem medical science. For some of the diseases certain exercises were prescribed but exercises could be prohibited altogether in other specific cases.
Ayurveda strongly advised to exercise in right measure. Susruta recommends daily exercise, because it leads to the development of the complexion of the body, strengthens and shapes the muscles, improves the appetite and produces lightness in the body, helps in warding off laziness and gives power to endure hard work, mental strain, thirst, cold or heat. Imbecility and senile decay never approach him who exercises properly, and the muscles of his body remain firm and steady. Charaka relates the fitness of the body with a non-diseased existence: the man who is well-proportioned in flesh, well-knit in figure, and firm
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of sense is not likely to be overpowered by violent disease.
Physical exercise brings about lightness, capacity to work, stability, immunity to ailments, elimination of morbidities as well as a good metabolism.
(Charaka 7.32)
At the base of Ayurveda is an important distinction between different types of bodies: the body can be of three kinds: Sthula (obese), Madhya (medium) and Krsa (thin). However, Ayurveda holds that every individual has his own physical personality beyond these types and it should be recognized as such. Of the three types the medium type personality is considered best by Ayurveda. There is another classification of body types based upon the preponderance of the three basic humours, Vata (wind). Pitta (bile), Kapha (phlegm). So there are Vata types, Pitta types and Kapha types. The ideal is to have the three humours equally balanced, which leads to perfect health. For each type of body different regimens are suggested. In addition, there are other factors influencing the personality, which are to be taken into consideration before one begins to take physical exercise, such as strength, diet, as well as the season of the year and the physical nature of the country.
One important outcome of a regular practice of appropriate physical exercise is the symmetrical development of body parts. The concept of such development was highly elaborated in Ayurveda. The Sanskrit literature of the epic period has ample references describing the ideal symmetrical body: the neck is strong and stable, the shoulders are broad and muscular, the arms long and heavy, the chest broad, the waist or girdle slim like conch, the forehead broad and the head round, etc. Charaka and Susruta both have described such ideal development. They gave minute descriptions of every part of the body and of the signs and symptoms of their perfect and ideal development. They described all parts of the body, up to the smallest, from the sole of the feet up to the texture of hairs. Charaka has described ideal and proportionate development of about thirty three different parts.
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Ayurveda has sometimes been called "the science of positive health", and it is obvious, if only through the brief notes given above, that at its basis was a vast knowledge about the human body, not only a theoretical knowledge but a very practical one that had been elaborated through observation and experimentation.
Of the three Upavedas studied by the young men of ancient India, the second was Dhanurveda. Unlike the name suggests, it does not exclusively deal with archery, but stands for the study of all weapons of war. A military training was given mostly to kshatriyas but far from exclusively. Firstly, it is interesting to point out that the teachers of Dhanurveda (like Dronacharya, the teacher of the Pandavas and the Kauravas) were specifically from the brahmana class. Secondly, the Mahabharata refers to the acquisition of knowledge about war and weapons for all the four varnas. Kautiliya also approves of the participation of vaishyas and shudras in the army. Therefore the popular notion that the military profession was the exclusive, monopoly of the kshatriyas is without foundation.
To be able to develop high proficiency in weapons and movements of war, one naturally required a lot of endurance, strength, suppleness, speed and generally a high level of physical fitness. All these qualities had to be developed through exercises (Vyayama) and sports like hunting (mrigaya). There was a specific training — involving a lot of physical exertion— in various methods of warfare. The armies consisted of four divisions ("chaturanga": horses, infantry, elephants, war-chariots); skills in arts like horse-riding, chariot-driving, elephant-riding were taught. Young warriors had also to learn the use of different kinds of weapons such as sword, lance, javelin (tomara), axe, mace, nooses (pasha), slings, etc.
Wrestling or Bahuyuddha (literally, fighting with arms) was the only sort of fight without weapons. A wrestler was supposed to have a precise and detailed knowledge of all the vital parts of the body (marma sthana), the nerves, the muscles, the joints and ligaments. Only with this knowledge could he vanquish his opponent. In the Mahabharata, we find a lively description of a wrestling tournament at the court of king Virata. Bhima, who lives there in hiding, is known as the cook of the king. But this extraordinary cook is going to show that he is capable of amazing physical feats:
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And there came athletes from all quarters by thousands, like hosts of celestials to the abode of Brahma or Siva to witness that festival. And they were endued with huge bodies and great prowess, like the demons called Kalakhanjas. And elated with their prowess and proud of their strength, they were highly honoured by the king. And their shoulders and waists and necks were like those of lions, and their bodies were very clean, and their hearts were quite at ease. And they had many a time won success in the lists in the presence of kings. And amongst them there was one who towered above the rest and challenged them all to a combat. And there was none that dared to approach him as he proudly stalked in the arena. And when the athletes stood sad and dispirited, the king of the Matsyas made him fight with his cook. And urged by the king, Bhima made up his mind reluctantly, for he could not openly disobey the royal behest. And that tiger among men then having worshipped the king, entered the spacious arena, pacing with the careless steps of a tiger. And the son of Kunti then girded up his loins to the great delight of the spectators. And Bhima then summoned to the combat that athlete known by the name of Jimuta who was like unto the Asura Vrita whose prowess was widely known. And both of them were possessed of great courage, and both were endued with terrible prowess. And they were like a couple of infuriate and huge-bodied elephants, each sixty years old. And those brave tigers among men then cheerfully engaged in a wrestling combat, desirous of vanquishing each other. And terrible was the encounter that took place between them, like the clash of the thunderbolt against the stony mountain-breast. And both of them were exceedingly powerful, and extremely delighted at each other's strength. And desirous of vanquishing each other, each stood eager to take advantage of his adversary's lapse. And both were greatly delighted and both looked like infuriate elephants of prodigious size. And various were the modes of attack and defence that they exhibited with their clenched fists. And each dashed against the
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other and flung his adversary to a distance. And each cast the other down and pressed him close to the ground. And each got up again and squeezed the other in his arms. And each threw the other violently off his place by boxing him on the breast. And each caught the other by the legs and whirling him round threw him down on the ground. And they slapped each other with their palms that struck as hard as the thunderbolt. And they also struck each other with their outstretched fingers, and stretching them out like spears thrust the nails into each other's body. And they gave each other violent kicks. And they struck knee and head against head, producing the crash of one stone against another. And in this manner that furious combat between those warriors raged on without weapons, sustained mainly by the power of their arms and their physical and mental energy, to the infinite delight of the con course of spectators. And all people... took deep interest in that encounter of those powerful wrestlers who fought like Indra and the Asura Vritra.
And they cheered both of them with loud acclamations of applause. And the broad-chested and long-armed experts in wrestling then pulled and pressed and whirled and hurled down each other and struck each other with their knees, expressing all the while their scorn for each other in loud voices. And they began to fight with their bare arms in this way, which were like spiked maces of iron. And at last the powerful and mighty-armed Bhima, the slayer of his foes, shouting aloud seized the vociferous athlete by the arms even as the lion seizes the elephant, and taking him up from the ground and holding him up from the ground and holding him aloft, began to whirl him round, to the great astonishment of the assembled athletes and the people of Matsya. And having whirled him round, and round a hundred times till he was insensible, the strong-armed Vrikodara dashed him to death on the g found."
Of all the arts of war, archery was certainly the noblest. It is the one that has inspired epic poets the most.
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They regarded it as a symbol of supreme victory and incomparable prowess. It is deeply embedded in the Indian culture and even now is still strongly engraved in the mind and imagination of the people of India. Who in India does not have a special place in his heart for the image of the two brothers, Rama and Laksman, bows resting on their shoulders, quivers on their backs, walking through the forests? Who does not shudder when he recalls the mighty Arjuna at Kurukshetra, facing the army of Dhritarastra, and so overcome by grief that he abandons his bow and arrows?
Having said so Arjuna with his mind overwhelmed with agony threw away his bow together with the arrows and sat idle on the chariot in the battle-field.
(Bhagavad Gita, 1.47)
"The trial of the princes" by Nandalal Bose — a depiction of the archery test conducted by Dronacharya for his students, the Pandavas and the Kauravas.
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Who does not remember king Dushyanta removing his bow with respect at the entrance of the peaceful hermitage of the great Rishi Kanva?
The practice of archery was a stupendous task. The Indian bow, as even the Greeks testify, was as long as a man's height and the Indians used an arrow which was three cubits in length with a heavy point. It naturally required a powerful man to handle such weapons. The Greek writers testify to the fact that such an arrow, when released from the powerful bow was thrown with such a tremendous force that it could pierce iron plates of great thickness. To secure an unerring aim with such a bow required constant practice. The practice which Arjuna is said to have had as a pupil under Drona was long and arduous, and it is stated that he used to practise even at night. The object of such practice was to secure unerring aim and achieve rapidity of throw. The archer was also expected to practise in all sorts of positions. Bows were of different lengths depending on the uses and the users. They were classified according to their weights and the strength of their cords. To pull the string of some bows or even to fix the string on to a bow was an extremely difficult task. In Chhandogya Upanishad we find the binding of a hard bow amongst examples of actions requiring a great strength:
Other examples of actions that need strength are: churning of woodsticks to produce fire, running in the battle field, stretching of a powerful bow...
(Chhandogya Upanishad 1.3)
However warriors were so well trained that they were able to practise archery even on horse-back. They first learnt to hit a stationary tar get, then a moving target while standing still, then they practised aiming at targets while they were moving either backwards or in a circle. They were even able to aim at a target while riding and moving away from the target.
The youth of ancient India used to take a keen interest in learning the art of archery and also a great delight in exhibiting their skill in big
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tournaments specially held for this purpose. Sometimes they would win a bride for themselves in "Svayamvara" by showing their skill in archery. In the Mahabharata, we have a fascinating account of the Svayamvara of Draupadi, the daughter of king Draupada. The competitors were asked to bend the specially mighty bow and shoot five arrows at a fish hanging from the ceiling in such a way that it was continuously moving. The catch was that the participants in the contest had to hit the target while looking down at the reflection of the moving fish in a water vessel kept on the floor below. Arjuna won by demonstrating extraordinary skill. It is interesting to note that this particular feat called Radhavedha was one among various other such feats which took place in tournaments not only during the epic period but even later.
Indeed it must be said that the study of Dhanurveda continued long after the end of the historical period of ancient India known as the epic period. Indian princes of later ages were intensively trained in Dhanurveda and were famous for their military valour. King Hemangada of the Kalingas bore scars on his forearm on account of the constant practice of archery. We are told of the hands of some princes whose skin had become very hard by the constant friction of the bow string. A king like Samudragupta who was named the "prince of poets" was no less proficient in the sterner arts of the warrior. On some coins, he is depicted trampling on a live tiger, which falls back as he shoots it. Wearing only waist cloth, turban and some jewellery, he stands as the very picture of energy. All these princes had a hall of exercises attached to the palace where they were able to exercise daily. In Bana's "Kadambari", we have a vivid description of the kind of education that was imparted to the princes. He tells us that King Tarapida of Ujjain had a "palace of learning" built for his son, the prince Chandrapida, outside the city. Underneath was a vast gymnasium. The young prince stayed there for years, preparing for adult life. Let us have a look at the vast range of his studies and let us see how physical education was deeply interwoven in the curriculum of the prince:
Chandrapida undisturbed in mind kept to his work by the king, quickly grasped all the sciences taught him by his teachers, whose efforts were quickened by his great powers, as they brought to light his natural abilities; the whole range of arts assembled in his mind as in a pure
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jewelled mirror. He gained the highest skill in word, sentence, proof, law, and royal policy; in all kinds of weapons such as the bow, quoit, shield, scimitar, dart, mace, battle axe, and club; in driving and elephant riding; in musical instruments, such as the lute, fife, drum, cymbal and pipe; in the laws of dancing laid down by Bharata and others and the science of music such as Narada; in the management of elephants, the knowledge of a horse's age and the marks of men; in painting, leaf-cutting, the use of books and writing; in all the arts of gambling, knowledge of the cries of birds, and astronomy; in testing of jewels, carpentry, the working of ivory, in architecture, physics, mechanics, antidotes, mining, crossing of rivers, leaping and jumping and sleight of hand; in stories, dramas, romances, poems; in the Mahabharata, the Puranas, the Itihasa and the Ramayana; in all kinds of writing, all foreign languages, all technicalities, all mechanical arts, in metre and in every other art. And while he ceaselessly studied, even in his childhood an inborn vigour like that of Bhima shone forth in him and stirred the world in wonder. For, when he was put in play the young elephants, who had attacked him as if he were a lion's whelp, had their limbs bowed down by his grasp on their ears and could not move; with one stroke of his scimitar he cut down palm trees as if they were lotus-stalks; his shafts, like those of Parasurama when he blazed to consume the forest of earth's royal stems, cleft only the loftiest peaks; he exercised himself with an iron club which ten men were need ed to lift
We can see that the programme of physical education was integrated to such an extent that it lost its separate existence and identity and became one with the whole programme of education.
Directly linked with Dhanurveda, because of the need to develop strength and fitness of the warriors, were a wide range of exercises (Vyayama), sports and games (Krida). Actually these were not exclusively meant for people supposed to join an army. People from all walks of life were advised to practise them according to their different capabilities.
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Amongst the physical exercises called Vyayama, some of them were very strenuous. For instance Bharasrama consisted in lifting heavy weights made of sandbags of various sizes. They had to be lifted several times by hands and legs. Another exercise, still prevalent today, was Stambhasrama. Stambha signifies pillar and Stambhasrama means exercise performed on the pillar or with the help of a pillar. The athlete was supposed to exercise by grasping the pillar with his arms and legs and whirling round the pillar. This exercise is now known as mullakhamba. These are only two among many other types of exercises like boxing, swimming, running, etc.
Amongst many sports and games of ancient India, we must mention the games with wild beasts and the games with horses. Gajavahyali Vinoda (sports with elephants) was a kind of race-competition between a man and a elephant. It, took place in a stadium built specially to this effect. It was, of course, extremely dangerous as the man could be trampled on by an angry elephant.
Other kinds of sports existed where a man fought unarmed with beasts such as elephants, bulls, buffaloes, etc. In the tournament held by King Virata, referred to above, Bhima had to fight against tigers, lions and elephants. During the great war he fought unarmed with the elephant of king Bhagadatta by entering through hind legs under the belly of the elephant and from there giving blows with his clenched fists. The Bhagvata Purana gives interesting accounts of Krishna fighting a furious elephant, of Balarama killing an ass by catching hold of his hind-legs, whirling him about and thrashing him against a tree. It gives a description of Krishna killing a wild bull by holding the two horns and wringing its neck. Even during the later periods, such fights were still in use. The kings of the Gupta dynasty were lovers of manly sports like these fights with wild beasts.
Asva-kanduka-krida, the sport with horses, was perhaps the most sophisticated game of ancient India. It was practised in a special play ground of specific dimensions called Vahyali. The game was played by two teams. The riders held strong sticks of cane (geddika) and had to strike a round ball made of wood covered with leather. Each team tried to send the ball towards the opposite goal. This game was very similar to what we now call polo.
To all these exercises and games must be added hunting, already mentioned. Hunting was believed to be an excellent activity for keeping fit.
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There is an amusing scene in Kalidasa's Shakuntalam where ill effects and benefits of hunting are debated. Vidusaka, the jester, the king's confidant, complains about the hardships of the chase: "O my fate! I am tired of being friends with this king who is so addicted to the chase. 'Here is deer', 'There is a boar', 'Yonder's a tiger', thus, even at mid-day we wander about from forest to forest, amid rocks of woods with summer-thinned tree-shades. We drink hot, stinking waters of mountain-torrents, astringent from the mixture of leaves. At irregular hours, we get our meal consisting chiefly of meat roasted in pits. And even in the nights, I cannot have enough sleep, as my joints are all dislocated by riding on horse-back." The General of the king, on the contrary, states that hunting makes one intimate with the art of striking down moving targets, give understandings of the signs of fear and ferocity of wild beasts and endows the body with excellent qualities owing to a conquest over fatigue. He adds that hunting reduces fat, controls the abdominal overgrowth and keeps the body light and agile. We may add that hunting was part of the duty of a king, as he had to protect the hermitages of the forest against wild beasts.
Education as seen by the Rishis of ancient India aimed at perfection — a perfection of the total human nature. It would have been surprising then if this education did not look after the aesthetic needs of the individual. As a matter of fact, openness to poetry, art, and beauty was a quality very much part of the ideal of a perfect man. And since our main concern here is the body, it must be mentioned that, if ancient Indians cherished their ideal of a strong body, they did not forget that a perfect body is also a body which can move with grace; which, through various postures, can express feelings or ideas, which can coordinate with ease its different movements, which is able to feel and follow a certain rhythm. This is why Gandharvaveda was part of the subjects taught to the students. This Upaveda was derived from Samaveda and it is a well known fact that the entire Samaveda is meant to be sung. Gandharvaveda was mainly concerned with the art of singing, dancing, playing instruments but it also included dramatics. Later around the 3rd century A.D, an important treatise on music, dance and drama, the Natya Shastra was written by the sage Bharata. It described in detail the different modes of dancing, the gestures of hands and feet, the many different postures. It seems that even in the Vedic period dancing was practised by both men and women. We hear of some groups of ascetics
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or recluses, the Ajivikas, who used dance and music as a means of spiritual progress. In the Mahabharata, we find that Arjuna, the great archer, was also expert in dancing and, while Bhima served King Virata as cook, he , under the pseudonym of Brhannala, offered his services as a dance-teacher. He taught the art of singing, playing of various instruments and dancing to the royal princess, Bettara and her maids.
Dancing was one of the sixty-four arts that a cultured lady was expected to master. There were dancing-halls attached to the palaces, where women could practise regularly under the supervision of a professional teacher. Sometimes professional dancers used to come and give performances in front of the king and his court. But dance did not exist only in palaces. It seems that there were various kinds of popular dances in which the people took part. There was, for instance, a great performance of group dance by women folk at the birth of Rama. The Balacarita describes how the lads and maidens of the cowherds rejoiced by singing and dancing on festive occasions.
However, it would be wrong to suppose from what has just been said that the education of women was limited to so-called feminine arts. It appears that women had the possibility, if they so chose, to get trained in warfare. The Rig-veda speaks of girls joining the army in large numbers. They were so skilled that men did not regard it as shameful to fight with such women. In the Ramayana, queen Kaikeyi reminds her husband that she accompanied him in the battle and was even able to save him by pulling him away from the battleground at the time when he was wounded. Women of royal families were expected to undergo a training in Dhanurveda, to learn the skills of charioteering and horse-riding like kings and princes. During the Maurya dynasty, it is certain that there existed women warriors. Megasthenes, the Greek traveller, who visited India at that time, speaks of armed women who served the king as his body-guards and escorted him while he went hunting. Megasthenes must have marvelled at this custom, as Greek women were expected chiefly to look after their household.
Let us add as a conclusion that ancient Indians, no less than ancient Greeks, used to enjoy public games. They took delight in watching skilled archers, mighty wrestlers or nimble acrobats. They were eager to admire their beautiful and healthy bodies. Many sports festivals were held on religious occasions. The festival of Samaja, in particular, which took place on every fifth day of new lunar months and which
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was dedicated to Saraswati, is believed to date back from Vedic times. These festivals organized by the kings gave people the opportunity of discovering the valour of the youth having finished their training period. Special arenas or stadia were constructed, depending on the kind of competition. Royal balconies were built. Galleries for spectators were erected and decorated with flags and flowers. Invitations were extend ed by the rulers who organized the festival by sending special envoys to different parts of the country. Of course, boys and girls were fond of these social gatherings and parents of young people studying at Universities like Varanasi or Taksila sent messages for their sons to come and watch the tournaments. These festivals lasted for days and were even celebrated during the whole night, as fires were kept burning till the appearance of dawn. Even that element which was so predominant in ancient Greek games — the element of poetry and art — was also there in ancient Indian games. Poets were present and tried to earn laurels by reciting their compositions. The crowd watched wonderful feats of archery, parades of war-elephants, wrestling competitions, horse races. To enliven the scene and entertain the crowd, outside the arena, musicians, acrobats, dancers exhibited their skills, tricks and performances. The drums and flutes of some orchestras added their joyous note to the general atmosphere of merriment and rejoicing. Watching these festivals must have been as exciting as being part of the Greek crowds at Olympia.
Greeks, like Indians, had the keenest appetite for activities of all kinds, physical, mental, emotional. They took delight in human achievements and particularly physical achievements. They enthusiastically admired all-round excellence, '"arete", and their heroes embodied their ideal. Yet there is a trend in the Greek conception of life which is intensely tragic: there was a keen sense that life, this life which they loved so fiercely, was so brief. As Homer puts in: "As is the life of the leaves, so is that of men. The wind scatters the leaves to the ground: the vigorous forest puts forth others, and they grow in the spring-season. Soon one generation of men comes and another ceases." The tragic note was produced by the tension between these two forces, passionate delight in life and apprehension of its unalterable framework. The Greek men wanted so much their fame to be immortal probably because they dreaded the dim shadowy life that was supposed to await them in Hades.
The Indian conception of life starts from a deeper centre. The Indian
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idea of existence is not physical but spiritual. Man himself is not matter, but a spirit that uses life and body and that gradually should move to self-discovery. This spirit can become one with God, one with the spirit of the universe. This belief in a gradual soul evolution with a final perfection is at the basis of the Indian conception of existence. So man was allowed to fill in life opulently with colour and beauty and enjoyment. But all activities were seen as opportunities for spiritual progress. To maintain one's body in good health, to train and discipline one's body, to delight in the breaking of one's bodily limits, all these human concerns and aspirations were recognized and encouraged, but they were seen as means of finding one's highest reality, the union with the supreme Self.
O God, may I become a vessel of immortality. May my body be swift to all works, may my tongue drop pure honey.
(Taittiriya Upanishad, 1.4)
Perhaps the full implications of the importance of the body to the spirit and of the spirit to the body were not worked out. As a result, in the course of history, India tended to neglect bodily life. The time has come now when the right balance of the body and the spirit should be achieved under a new ideal of divine life in a divine body.
___________________________
This essay is based on the material
contained in
Physical Education in Ancient India,
by S.H. Deshpande,
Bharatiya Vidya Prakasan,
New Delhi.
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The Greeks loved to play, and they played on a great scale. All over Greece there were games, all sort of games; athletic contests of every description: races — horse-, boat-, foot-, torch races; contests in music, where one side outsung the other; in dancing — on greased skins sometimes to display a nice skill of foot and balance of body; games where men leaped in and out of flying chariots; games so many one grows weary with the list of them. They are embodied in the statues familiar to all, the disc thrower, the charioteer, the wrestling boys, the dancing flute players. The great games — there were four that came at stated seasons — were so important, when one was held, a truce of God was proclaimed so that all Greece might come in safety without fear. There "glorious-limbed youth" — the phrase is Pindar's, the athlete's poet — strove for an honour so coveted as hardly anything else in Greece. An Olympic victor — triumphing generals would give place to him. His crown of wild olives was set beside the prize of the tragedian. Splendour attended him, processions, sacrifices, banquets, songs the greatest poets were glad to write. Thucydides, the brief, the severe, the historian of that bitter time, the fall of Athens, pauses, when one of his personages has conquered in the games, to give the fact full place of honour. If we had no other knowledge of what the Greeks were like, if nothing were left of Greek art and literature, the fact that they were in love with play and played magnificently would be proof enough of how they lived and how they looked at life. Wretched people, toiling people, do not play. Nothing like the Greek games is conceivable in Egypt or Mesopotamia. The life of the Egyptian lies spread out in the mural paintings down to the minutest detail. If fun and sport had played any real part they would be there in some form for us to see. But the Egyptian did not play. "Solon, Solon, you Greeks are all children," said the Egyptian priest to the great Athenian. At any rate, children or not, they enjoyed themselves. They had physical vigour and high spirits and time, too, for fun. The witness
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of the games is conclusive. And when Greece died and her reading of the great enigma was buried with her statues, play, too, died out of the world. The brutal, bloody Roman games had nothing to do with the spirit of play.... Play died when Greece died and many and many a century passed before it was resurrected.
Such was the veneration attached to disciplined physical achievement that in the confused chronology of early Hellenic history perhaps the only date which historians can treat as a lodestar in their search is 776 BC. This is called the first fixed date in Greek history, the year in which the Olympic Games were founded in honour of Zeus.
But this was by no means the beginning of Greek athletics. We know from Homer, the author of the two famous epics the Iliad and the Odyssey, that the events of the Games had been practised in the Greek world many centuries before the Trojan War. In the Iliad, right in the middle of that war, the great hero "swift-footed Achilles" organises "funeral" games in honour of his dear friend Patroclus, who has just fallen in battle. Achilles watches all the games and distributes the prizes. Only then does he consider that he has paid a proper tribute to his friend. Athletics were thought the best way of honouring the gods and those striving to surpass them, the "heroes".
Let us turn back to Homer for a moment. The poet of the Iliad had what some misguided people today think the most necessary qualification for the artist: he was class-conscious. He writes only of kings and princes; the ordinary soldier plays no part in the poem. Moreover, these kings and princes are portrayed sharply with all the limitations of their class and time; they are proud, fierce, vengeful, glorying in war though at the same time hating it. How could it happen then that such heroes could become exemplars and a living inspiration to the later bourgeoisie? Because, being Greeks, they could not see themselves in any context but the widest possible, namely as men. Their ideal was not a specifically knightly ideal, like Chivalry or Love: they called it arete — another typically Greek word. When we meet it in Plato we translate it "Virtue' and consequently miss all the flavour of it. 'Virtue', at least in modem English, is almost entirely a moral word; arete on the other hand is used indifferently in all the categories and means simply 'excellence'. It may be limited of course by its context; the arete of a race-horse is
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speed, of a cart-horse strength. If it is used, in a general context, of a man it will connote excellence in the ways in which a man can be excel lent — morally, intellectually, physically. Thus the hero of the Odyssey is a great fighter, a wily schemer, a ready speaker, a man of stout heart and broad wisdom who knows that he must endure without too much complaining what the gods send; and he can both build and sail a boat, drive a furrow as straight as anyone, beat a young braggart at throwing the discus, challenge the Phaeacian youth at boxing, wrestling or running; Hay, skin, cut up and cook an ox, and be moved to tears by a song. He is in fact an excellent all-rounder; he has surpassing arete. So too has the hero of the older poem, Achilles — the most formidable of fighters, the swiftest of runners, and the noblest of soul; and Homer tells us, in one notable verse, how Achilles was educated. His father entrusted the lad to old Phoenix, and told Phoenix to train him to be "A maker of speeches and a doer of deeds". The Greek hero tried to combine in him self the virtues which our own heroic age divided between the knight and the churchman.
It is not a point to emphasize, but it does introduce another aspect of this wholeness of mind, one in which the Greeks contrasted sharply with the "barbarians" and with most modem peoples. The sharp distinction which the Christian and the Oriental world has normally drawn between the body and the soul, the physical and the spiritual, was foreign to the Greek — at least until the time of Socrates and Plato. To him there was simply the whole man. That the body is the tomb of the soul is indeed an idea which we meet in certain Greek mystery-religions, and Plato, with his doctrine of immortality, necessarily distinguished sharply between body and soul; but for all that, it is not a typical Greek idea. The Greek made physical training an important part of education, not because he said to himself, 'Look here, we mustn't forget the body', but because it could never occur to him to train anything but the whole man. It was as natural for the polis to have gymnasia as to have a theatre or warships, and they were constantly used by men of all ages, not only for physical but also for mental exercise.
But it is the Games, local and international, which most clearly illustrate this side of the Greek mind. Among us it is sometimes made a reproach that a man "makes a religion of games". The Greek did not do this, but he did something perhaps more surprising: he made games part of his religion. To be quite explicit, the Olympian Games, the
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greatest of the four international festivals, were held in honour of Zeus of Olympia, the Pythian Games in honour of Apollo, the Panathenaic Games in honour of Athena. Moreover, they were held in the sacred precinct. The feeling that prompted this was a perfectly natural one. The contest was a means of stimulating and displaying human arete, and this was a worthy offering to the god. In the same way, games were held in honour of a dead hero, as to Patroclus in the lliad. But since arete is of the mind as well as of the body, there was not the slightest incongruity or affection in combining musical contests with athletic; a contest in flute-playing was an original fixture in the Pythian Games — for was not Apollo himself "Lord of the Lyre".
It was arete that the games were designed to test — the arete of the whole man, not a merely specialized skill. The usual events were a sprint, of about 200 yards, the long race (1.5 miles), the race in armour, throwing the discus, and the javelin, the long jump, wrestling, boxing (of a very dangerous kind), and chariot-racing. The great event was the pentathlon: a race, a jump, throwing the discus, and the javelin, and wrestling. If you won this, you were a man. Needless to say, the Marathon race was never heard of until modern times: the Greeks would have regarded it as a monstrosity. As for the skill shown by modem champions in games like golf or billiards, the Greeks would certainly have admired it intensely, and thought it an admirable thing — in a slave, supposing that one had no better use for a slave than to train him in this way. Impossible, he would say, to acquire skill like this and at the same time to live the proper life of a man and a citizen. It is this feeling that underlies Aristotle's remark that a gentleman should be able to play the flute.— but not too well.
The victor in one of the great games was a Man. He was indeed almost something more, a Hero, and was treated as such by his fellow citizens. Public honours were paid him — which might include the grant of dinner in the town-hall at the public expense for the rest of his life (something to off-set the Crown of Wild Olive), and, especially among the Dorians, the custom grew of commissioning a poet-composer to write a solemn choral hymn in his honour, for performance at a banquet or at some religious festival. So it came about that of the two most majestic and serious poets of the early fifth century, Aeschylus and Pindar, the latter is known to us entirely (but for some fragments of other poems) as a writer of victory-odes. A strange idea to us, that a
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Wrestling contest in the athletic training-ground
serious poet should write odes to athletes. What is more surprising is to find, in such an ode, a passage like this:
He who wins, of a sudden, some noble prize
In the rich years of youth
Is raised high with hope; his manhood takes wings;
He has in his heart what is better than wealth.
But brief is the season of man's delight.
Soon it falls to the ground; some dire decision
uproots it.
— Thing of a day! such is man; a shadow in a dream.
Yet when god-given splendour visits him
A bright radiance plays over him, and how sweet
is life!
The Olympic Games, the most famous of the four great festivals, were open to all Greeks. They were held every four years in a sacred place called Olympia, in honour of Zeus Olympus, king of gods and men. From the beginning the games attracted many visitors.
When the Greeks from the mainland started establishing settlements on the coasts around the Mediterranean Sea, the Olympic Games became the occasion for people scattered over different lands to meet with their compatriots. It was a much awaited "rendezvous" that most Greeks did not want to miss. The Olympic Games were such an important
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event in Greek life that people would count time in "Olympiads", the periods of four years between the Games. That was the only common calendar on which all Greeks could agree.
It all started with a ceremony...
For two days the procession had been moving slowly down the sacred way toward Olympia. At the head of the parade were the stem Hellanodicae, the purple-robed judges who would preside over the ancient Olympic Games. They were followed by other officials: referees, umpires, heralds, and trumpeters. Then came the athletes and their trainers, representing most of the city-states throughout the ancient Greek world. There were slim-waisted, long-legged runners; broad shouldered pentathletes, who would compete in five events; and heavy chested, large-limbed wrestlers and boxers. In the rear were sleek race horses and their riders, and colourful chariots drawn by spirited steeds.
The sacred way to Olympia started in Elis, the city-state 34 miles away. The route skirted the low mountains of the western Peloponnesus and followed the curves along the coast line of the Ionian Sea. As the pro cession reached the fountain of Piera, which marked the boundary between Elis and the holy precinct of Olympia, the summer sun was sinking slowly behind the western edge of the sea. A halt was called and the marchers paused for the final rites of purification before setting foot on the sacred soil of Olympia. A pig was sacrificed and cleansing ceremonies were performed with the waters of the fountain. Then the marchers settled down among the olive trees to spend the night. The middle of the month, the time of the full moon, was just three nights away.
At the same time, travellers from all over the ancient Greek world were flocking to the Olympic Games. Some were coming on foot along the coastal road from Athens and Corinth. Others, on horseback and in carriages, crowded the valleys and jammed every road and mountain pass on the Peloponnesian peninsula. Up the Alpheus River came barges on their way from the sea about 10 miles to the west. The vessels carried Greek statesmen and merchant princes, each trying to out shine the other in magnificence. They had travelled all the way from Italy and Sicily, Marseille, the Black Sea, and even from the northern coast of Africa. In all of these places the Greeks had established colonies, and their inhabitants still spoke only Greek and followed faithfully their homeland's customs.
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Among the arriving visitors were poets and philosophers, princes and politicians, historians, soldiers, sculptors, and horse breeders. Peasants from Elis and nearby Pisa mingled with fishermen from the coast and offshore islands. With the crowds came herdsmen driving cattle to be sacrificed on the altars, merchants laden down with skins of wine, and fruit vendors. Bundles of lucky charms were being carted in for sale, as well as fillets, or headbands of wool, religious offerings, and wreaths resembling the crown of olives to be awarded each winning Olympic champion. With the peddlers came singers and dancers, gamblers and thieves, bands of clowns, acrobats, and tumblers.
Early the next morning the official procession entered Olympia and the Festival was under way. The athletes, with their trainers, families, and friends, had been in Elis for a month. For thirty days the athletes had been training under the supervision of the Hellanodicae, who were very strict. Any athlete who broke a rule could expect a beating. The contestants, who had to be free Greek sons of free Greek parents, were tested and trained rigorously, and only the best were permitted to compete at Olympia. According to Philostratus (Life of Apollonius), before the chosen athletes had set out on the two-day march to the Games, they had been told by the judges:
If you have practiced hard for Olympia, and if you have not been lazy, or done anything dishonourable, then go forward with confidence. But if any of you have not trained your selves this way, then leave us and go where you choose.
At Olympia the athletes had to go through one final ceremony to reaffirm their eligibility to compete. They stood before a towering statue of Zeus, represented as the god of oaths brandishing a thunderbolt in each hand. The figure was awe-inspiring, a grim warning to anyone who might have been tempted to testify falsely. The athletes, their fathers, brothers, and trainers raised their hands over the entrails of a sacrificed pig and swore a solemn oath. They vowed that they had observed all the rules of training for at least ten months and that they would use no unfair means in order to win at the Games.
After the athletes had finished giving their oath, the judges swore to take no bribes, to make their decisions fairly, and to keep secret the reasons for their judgments. Then the final list of entries was drawn up,
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and the order of the preliminary heats written out on a white board. The athletes and their trainers crowded around the board, anxious to see who their opponents would be in the first matches....
There was a sense of peace about the Olympic site. It was, late summer; the early grain harvests had already been gathered, but the grapes were still ripening on the vines and the olives on the trees. It was a good time for the men and youths who worked in the fields and orchards to put down their tools for a while. In years past, the lull after the early harvest had often been filled with the clash of battles between neighbouring city-states, but for the Olympic Games a sacred truce was declared for a period of three months.
During this time of truce all arms were forbidden at Olympia, and safe passage was guaranteed to all competitors and visitors. Yet, old rivalries were not easily forgotten, and the crowds, even as they wandered around after the athletes from their own communities, continued .to eye visitors from rival city-states cautiously. The truce was originally intended to end the fighting on the Peloponnesus between the two rival city-states Elis and Pisa. But as the Greek world spread into Asia, Africa, and Europe, it became necessary to expand the area protected by the truce. Originally the truce lasted for only one month, then it had to be extended for an additional month, then still another, to permit the competitors and spectators time to reach the banks of the Alpheus and return home.
Several months before the Olympic Games were scheduled to begin, three sacred truce bearers of Zeus left Elis and headed east and west to every city-state on the Greek mainland and every Greek community overseas. These heralds were welcomed throughout the states of the Greek-speaking world. With official ceremony, the heralds proclaimed the period of the sacred truce and invited all Greek citizens to come to Olympia....
A visit to Olympia was not the most comfortable of experiences. The roads were poor and there were few accommodations for visitors. Food could be purchased only from booths and stalls, and drinking water was scarce. Until an ornamental fountain was erected in Roman times, there were only nine freshwater sources to supply the thousands of visitors.
Late summer was a time of fierce, scorching heat by day, barely cooled off by the breezes at night. The noise and din of thousands of
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people crammed into the altis overpowered the stillness of the sanctuary. Taking baths was a problem, despite moments of sudden, drenching downpours, which soaked visitors to the skin. Conditions were so uncomfortable that one Greek master threatened to punish his disobedient slave by sending him to Olympia to endure all its hardships.
On the other hand, visitors were delighted by the spectacle of the Games. Almost everyone agreed with the Greek satirist Lucian, who told a sceptical visitor from Scythia:
My dear Anacharsis, if it were time for the Olympic Games, or the Isthmian or Panathenaic Games, the events there would themselves teach you that the energy we give to athletics is not wasted. But telling you how delightful the Games are will-not really convince you. You should sit there yourself, among the spectators, and see the fine contestants, how beautiful and healthy their bodies are, their marvellous skill and unbeatable strength, their daring and ambition, their firm resolve and their absolute will to win. I know quite well that you would never stop praising them, clapping and cheering.
And so for five days, 45000 spectators, who had slept in the open under the stars, kept their places in the stadium all day long, despite the heat, the mosquitoes, and the thirst. No women sat among them: women were not allowed to attend the festival.
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All the contestants as well as their trainers, whatever their age or rank, were naked.
The most important events were grouped together as the pentathlon, or five contests. To promote all-around development in the athlete each entry in any of these events was required to compete in all of them; to secure the victory it was necessary to win three contests out of the five. The first was a broad jump; the athlete held weights like dumbbells in his hands, and leaped from a standing start. Ancient writers assure us that some jumpers spanned fifty feet; but
it is not necessary to believe everything that we read. The second event was throwing the discus, a circular plate of metal or stone weighing about twelve pounds; the best throws are said to have covered a hundred feet. The third contest was in hurling the javelin or spear, with the aid of a leather thong attached to the centre of the shaft. The fourth and principal event of the group was the stadium sprint — i.e., for the length of the stadium, usually some two hundred yards. The fifth contest was wrestling. It was a highly popular form of competition in Greece, for the very name palaistra was taken from it, and many a story was told of its champions.
Boxing was an ancient game, almost visibly handed down from Minoan Crete and Mycenaean Greece. The boxers practiced with punching balls hung on a level with the head and filled with fig seeds, meal, or sand. In the classic age of Greece (i.e., the fifth and fourth centuries), they wore "soft gloves" of oxhide dressed with fat and reaching almost to the elbow. Blows were confined to the head, but there was no rule against hitting a man who was down. There were no rests or rounds; the boxers fought till one surrendered or succumbed. They were not classified by weight; any man of any weight might enter the lists. Hence weight was an asset, and boxing degenerated in Greece from a competition in skill into a contest in brawn.
In the course of time, as brutality increased, boxing and wrestling were combined into a new contest called the pankration, or game of all powers. In this everything but biting and eye-gouging was permitted, even to a kick in the stomach. Three heroes whose names have come
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down to us won by breaking the fingers of their opponents; another struck so ferociously with straight extended fingers and strong sharp nails that he pierced the flesh of his adversary and dragged out his bowels. Milo of Crotona was a more amiable pugilist. He had developed his strength, we are told, by carrying a calf every day of its life until it was a full-grown bull. People loved him for his tricks: he would hold a pomegranate so fast in his fist that no one could get it from him, and yet the fruit was uninjured; he would stand on an oiled quoit and resist all efforts to dislodge him; he would tie a cord around his fore head and burst the cord by holding his breath and so forcing blood to his head. In the end he was destroyed by his virtues. "For he chanced," says Pausanias, "on a withered tree, into which some wedges had been driven to separate the wood, and he took it into his head to keep the wood apart with his hands. But the wedges slipped out, he was imprisoned in the tree, and became a prey to the wolves."
In addition to the pentathlon sprint, there were other fool; races at the games. One was for four hundred yards, another for twenty-four stadia, or 2 2/3 miles; a third was an armed race, in which each runner carried a heavy shield. We have no knowledge of the records made in these races; the stadium differed in length in different cities, and the Greeks had no instruments for measuring small intervals of time. Stories tell of a Greek runner who could outdistance a hare; of another who raced a horse from Coronea to Thebes (some twenty miles) and beat it; and of how Pheidippides ran from Athens to Sparta — 150 miles — in two days and, at the cost of his life, brought to Athens the news of the victory at Marathon, twenty-four miles away. But there were no "marathon races" in Greece.
In the plain below the stadium Olympia built a special hippodrome for horse races. Women as well as men might enter their horses, and, as now, the prize went to the owner and not to the jockey, though the horse was sometimes rewarded with a statue. The culminating events of the games were the chariot races, with two or four horses running abreast. Often ten four-horse chariots competed together; and as each had to negotiate twenty-three turns around the posts at the ends of the course, accidents were the chief thrill of the game; in one race with forty starters a single chariot finished. We may imagine the tense excitement of the spectators at these contests, their wordy arguments about their favourites, their emotional abandonment as the survivors rounded the last turn.
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When the toils of five days were over the victors received their rewards. Each bound a woollen fillet about his head, and upon this the judges placed a crown of wild olive....
Winning in the Olympic Games was believed to be as pleasing to the Doric gods as it was to the princes and spectators assembled to watch the events. Unfairness and corruption were deemed displeasing to the gods; it was considered a sacrilege to violate the rules of the game. A strong bond linked every Greek athlete with his gods, to whom he believed he owed his success. Early competition in Greece was quite free of corruption, particularly at Olympia.
Sculptors made bronze or stone statues of the victor. The physical perfection of the all-round athlete generated the ideal of Greek statuary. The festival gave the sculptor unequalled opportunities to study the nude human body in every natural form and pose. Poets wrote odes in honour of the victor, and these were sung by choruses of boys in the procession that welcomed him home. So the winning athlete was immortalized in statues and poems; his excellence had made him worthy of being among the gods.
Greece lost its freedom when it was made part of a Roman province in 146 BC. The Olympic Games, however, went on without interruption. Roman aristocrats and athletes now came across the seas to compete with Greek athletes in the ancient Games. But when the Roman Emperors converted to Christianity, the Games lost their patronage. An edict of the Emperor Theodosus I, in AD 393, closed all "pagan" shrines. Zeus the Thunderer and all the other gods of Mount Olympus were banished. The last Olympiad, the 293rd, was probably held that same year.
Olympia lay buried in mud for about 1,400 years. Early in the nineteenth century, archaeologists began to explore the remains of the temple of Zeus, and they have been digging in the area ever since.
A French nobleman. Baron Pierre de Coubertin, envisioned a modern revival of the ancient games, and he spent many years appealing for support from the nations of the world. In 1896 he finally was able to restage the Games for the first time in fourteen centuries. Now every four years a "priestess " lights an Olympic flame from the light of the sun, enters the stadium in Olympia, and hands the torch to a priestly "king" of the new Olympiad. He passes the torch to the leader of a team of runners, who usher it out of the altis to a grove dedicated to
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Baron de Coubertin. There an urn is lit on a modern altar, where it burns for the entire duration of the Games.
Another torch, lit from the urn on the altar, is carried by relays of runners until the Olympic flame has reached a temporary home, wherever in the world the Games are about to take place.
Essay based on extracts from H.D.F.
Kitto, The Greeks,
Penguin Books, London,
and from Edith Hamilton,
The Greek Way,
Norton and Company, New York
Baron Pierre de Coubertin
The Olympic flame, Seoul, 1988
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Douglas
Wakiihuri, world
marathon champion
and silver medallist
Modem Olympic Games
One and one half thousand years ago, the flame of the ancient Olympic Games was extinguished at Olympia in Greece by the Roman Emperor Theodosius. When the idea of reestablishing the Olympic Games was first brought up, it was greeted with sarcasm: "Not far removed from the ridiculous, " people said. The man who had the conviction and the courage to initiate this idea, as well as the tenacity to finally realize the first Olympic Games, was Baron de Coubertin. The wars had swept through Europe at the end of the last century and he realized that the Olympic Games, crossing all boundaries of nationality, race, religion, language and colour could reawaken the sense of human unity. On the tomb stone of his grave in Olympia is engraved a message which well expresses his idea.
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THE IMPORTANT THING IN THE OLYMPIC GAMES IS NOT TO WIN, BUT TO TAKE PART; THE IMPORTANT THING IN LIFE IS NOT TO TRIUMPH, BUT TO STRUGGLE. THE ESSENTIAL THING IS NOT TO HAVE CONQUERED, BUT FOUGHT WELL.
Pierre de Coubertin will fight during more than thirty years to securely reestablish the Olympic Games. He was only 29 years when in 1892 he made his first public appeal for the resurrection of the Olympic Games during a meeting of the Union des Sports Athletiques. In 1894, the International Congress of Paris for the Reestablishment of the Olympic Games was held. The Sorbonne, one of the high centres of the French intellectual world, allowed de Coubertin to use its amphitheatre. Two thousand people attended the Congress, including 79 delegates and 49 sports associations from 12 countries. A hymn to Apollo, recently discovered at Delphi, was sung at the inauguration. Afterwards, Pierre de Coubertin stood by and unfolded his great dream before the Congress. He told them that "a man is not only formed of two parts, body and soul; there are three — body, mind and character. And character is not formed by mind, but primarily by the body. The men of antiquity knew this, and we are painfully relearning it. "
Despite the unanimous motion in favour of the revival of the Olympic Games, de Coubertin himself had no illusion. He would later recall in his memoirs that out of the whole Congress only two members truly believed in the Olympics. But his powers of persuasion were so great that the other participants felt compelled to agree. This latent scepticism is probably one of the reasons which, a few years later, made de Coubertin himself wonder if the attempt was not doomed to failure. Any great endeavour in the world, which aims at something quite beyond the ordinary ways of men, is likely to meet with fierce resistance: this was no exception.
In fact, there were so many critics that de Coubertin decided to press for an early date to hold the first Games. Initially the date chosen was 1900, with Paris as the venue; but, feeling that six years were giving too much time to those who wanted to kill the idea, he travelled himself to Greece with an alternative date in mind: 1896. If the Olympic Games were to be revived, why not resume them at Olympia itself? Finally Athens was chosen preferably to Olympia, as the ancient site, deprived of any modem facilities, was also difficult of access.
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In November 1894, Athens having been tentatively agreed upon as the venue, Pierre de Coubertin set up an International Olympic Committee (IOC) of 14 members chosen from the 12 nations which had participated in the Congress. The role of this Committee was to define policies and promote the ideals that had led to the revival of the Olympic Games. The IOC gave itself four aims:
1) Promotion of those physical and moral qualities which are at the basis of sport.
2) Promotion of international understanding by educating young people through sport.
3) Spreading of the Olympic ideals throughout the world.
4) Bringing together of the athletes of the world in a great four yearly festival of sports.
The manner in which Pierre de Coubertin saw the role of the members of this new Committee is revealing of his realism, his methods and his aspirations. In his memoirs he described the IOC as a "self-recruit ed body... composed of three concentric circles: a small core of earnest and hard-working members; a nursery of willing members ready to be taught; finally a front of more or less useful people whose presence satisfied national pretensions at the same time as it gave prestige to the Committee as a whole." Members were to be "trustees" of the Olympic ideals. They were chosen on the basis of their knowledge of sport as well as for their national standing. According to de Coubertin, their role was to be ambassadors of the International Olympic Committee in their own countries and not the opposite, a "delegation in reverse", in his own words. Naturally, as could be expected, not everyone in the IOC would come up to such standards; nevertheless a certain tone was set in accordance with the Olympic ideals rather than with nationalistic preoccupations.
The first Olympic Games began on April 5th 1896 in Athens. There were 42 events in 30 sport disciplines with a total of 311 participants (men only) from 13 nations. No team competition took place. Most events were those which were part of the ancient Olympic Games, like running, discus, long jump, high jump, wrestling, etc. The Marathon was won by a Greek peasant called Spiridon Louis who became a hero for the Greeks. Overall, these first Games were a success, so much so
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Athens 1896
that the Greeks began to claim exclusive rights to hold future Games. Pierre de Coubertin, diplomatically but firmly, maintained that the next Games would be held in Paris in 1900, as previously scheduled. Later the Greeks would realize that the cost of organizing such Games every four years was beyond their means.
The Olympic Games in Paris turned out to be an embarrassing failure. Reduced to a mere appendage to the 1900 World Exhibition, the events of the Olympics were spread over 5 months with poor organization and poor attendance. One event only, a football match between the two arch-enemies that were then the French and the Germans, turned out to be surprisingly comforting, with the French spectators applauding both teams: this was indeed an illustration of what de Coubertin stood for. Similarly, the 1904 Games, held in the USA, were a disaster, with most European nations skipping the event and the organizers proving to be even more incompetent than those in Paris. It was also the first time that the risks of commercialism appeared: to solve the financial difficulties, the Games were linked to the St Louis World Fair and de Coubertin himself admitted that it was a commercialization of the Olympic spirit but said he had no other choice. He was so troubled by this that he did not even attend the St Louis Games.
After such failures, the Olympic movement was in disarray and, curiously enough, it was the success of the Intercalated (or Interim) Games, held by the Greeks in 1906 against the wish of de Coubertin and the IOC, which contributed to keep the idea alive. The 1908
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Games held in London were well organized but marred by many disputes. At last, the I9J2 Games, organized in Stockholm, proved to be for Pierre de Coubertin, in his own words, "an enchantment". He added that for the first time the world saw "a great international festival of sporting friendship and goodwill. "
After the interruption of the Great War (1914-1918), the Olympic Games were held in Antwerp in 1920, again thanks to the indomitable spirit of Pierre de Coubertin: he had been extremely upset by the failure to hold the 1916 Olympics, as he saw it as a failure of the Olympics ideals; nevertheless, instead of being discouraged, he was all the more resolved to resume his action. Antwerp was chosen because it had been ravaged during the war: out of its ashes, felt de Coubertin, a new spirit of unity could arise. In a speech given immediately after the Games, the Baron declared, "This is what the Seventh Olympiad has brought us: general comprehension; the certainty of being henceforward under stood by all.... These festivals... are, above all, the festivals of human unity. In an incomparable synthesis, the effort of the muscles and of mind, mutual help and competition, lofty patriotism and intelligent cosmopolitanism, the personal interest in the champion and the abnegation of the team-member, are bound in a sheaf for a common task. "
Today, these ideas may not seem to us revolutionary in the least. But let us remember that in de Coubertin's time, words like "cosmopolitanism" or even "human unity" were suspicious to most citizens of European countries. Men who uttered them were often considered as traitors to their own motherland. It was a time of aggressive national ism, and anybody presenting an ideal transcending the narrow limits of nationalistic pride was immediately seen as somebody plotting to ' destroy the nation. De Coubertin was fiercely attacked, and firstly by those who should have helped him the most, his compatriots; during the First World War, he had even been accused of being a coward for choosing Switzerland, a neutral country, for the headquarters of the 10C. It is in this context that we should appreciate the courage of Pierre de Coubertin, a true pioneer, whose vision was greatly ahead of his times and who relentlessly fought to materialize it. One really admires the determination of the man who, almost single-handedly, succeeded in establishing a great organization in which nobody believed at first.
The 1924 Games will be the last under the presidentship of de
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Coubertin. He had wanted them to be held in Paris so as to erase the sad memories of the 1900 Games. He also wished to have the Games in his own country at the end of his Presidentship. This time, it was a success. 44 nations were represented (against 29 in 1920) with 3092 competitors, including 136 women. Six world records were set and fifteen existing records were equalled or broken. At last it was clear that the Olympic Games would continue, even without their founder. In fact, the Paris Games were the last Games which he attended. In a farewell message to the athletes and all those taking part in the Games of the ninth Olympiad at Amsterdam, he exhorted everyone to "strongly and faithfully keep ever alive the flame of the revived Olympic spirit and maintain its necessary principles... The great point is that, everywhere everyone from adolescent to adult, should cultivate and spread the true sporting spirit of spontaneous loyalty and chivalrous impartiality."
The Games did continue, except for an interruption due to World War II: the Games which were to be held in Tokyo in 1940 and London in 1944 were cancelled. The last Games before the war had been held in Berlin in 1936. They are best remembered by Hitler's failed attempt to use them to prove his theories of racial superiority, but they are also noteworthy as they were the first to be shown on television. It was only after 12 years that the Olympic Games were resumed in London in 1948. In the following Games the number of competitors steadily increased to reach a total of 7078 participants and 141 nations in the 1984 Games at Los Angeles. The largest number ever of competitors and nations was reached in Sydney (2000) with 199 countries participating in the Games.
This obvious success, genuine in many ways, belongs to the bright side of a mixed reality. The Cold War period created an intense rivalry between the two big blocks and there has been many instances of reciprocal boycotts where the spirit of sportsmanship was totally forgotten. In some countries, particularly in the East, participation in the Games was a state affair and success a must. As a result, the pressures on the athletes and their coaches were often beyond reasonable limits. There has been also a great increase of commercialism during these years as the organizers of the Games wanted to make sure not to be faced with huge deficits as had happened in Montreal in 1976. Now the Olympic Games are even supposed to be profitable, which increases dangerously the already crushing power of money.
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There is no doubt today that the Olympic Games are the major planetary sport event, well ahead of any of the other world competitions. Billions of people worldwide were able to watch at the same time on their television screens the opening and closing ceremonies of the Sydney Games, as well as many important events. In the remotest corners of India, men and women who are still living a very traditional life, were able to glance at an entirely different aspect of the world than the one they are familiar with. Such happenings do reinforce powerfully the sense of being citizens of one common world, where the limitations of nationalism and borders, despite so much fierce resistance, are bound to fade away. This, at least, is undoubtedly one of the great contributions of the Olympic Games to human progress.
To succeed in the Olympic Games, the athletes have to develop those qualities which are necessary for both physical and moral endeavour: health, strength, agility, fitness, discipline and a sound and strong character, good humour, tolerance, fair-play, obedience and humility. These qualities have their value in a team sport as well as in the life of the individual. Any team which possesses them has more chances to do well and also will encourage the same qualities in other teams.
Evolution on earth is governed by two forces, one of unity and the other of division. These two forces are in a race, and the spirit of the ; modern Olympic Games is strengthening the forces of unity. Baron de Coubertin envisaged people living together and participating in the Games not only as members of their national teams, but as citizens of the whole world.
Is the Olympic spirit still alive ? It is not for us to judge, rather we prefer to hope and believe that, despite many shortcomings and abuses, the Games are a manifestation of a deep, maybe unconscious aspiration of mankind towards a better, nobler human life, where differences would be seen as an expression of a rich diversity which does not pre vent but, on the contrary, sustains human unity.
That was certainly Pierre de Coubertin's intuition. When in 1913 he found an emblem at Delphi consisting of five linked rings, he chose it as the symbol of the Olympics and explained, "These five rings represent the five parts of the world won over to Olympism and ready to accept its bountiful rivalries. The six colours combined in this way rep resent those of every nation without exception." Still one wonders why one of the rings of the Olympic flag is black. Colours have a meaning
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and, even if black has its own austere beauty, its meaning is negative. Moreover, the rings are so arranged that the black one is at the centre, which reinforces the negative effect. The one ring colour that is missing is white, which contains all the other colours. Let us hope that one day the black ring can be changed into white. For the time being, the presence of the black ring may be just symbolic of the sad reality of today's world situation.
The true substance of the Olympic Games is made of the intense interactions between athletes coming from all over the world. The challenge they have to face is tremendous; they have been training for years, dreaming of this moment, they have been rehearsing endlessly, waiting weeks or months for a race or match which may last only for a few minutes. And now they have to gather their whole being, body and mind, for the ultimate effort. In this endeavour, the power of their concentration, their ability to bear the considerable pressure of top-level competition, are probably what makes the difference between victory
and defeat. In a book called The Olympians written by Sebastian Coe, himself several times an Olympic gold medallist in running competitions, a description is given of the different psychological situations faced by field athletes. We feel it gives an insight into the inner world of these top competitors.
Before his 100 meters victory at Paris, Harold Abrahams was told by his coach Sam Mussabini: "Only think of two things, the pistol and the tape. When you hear the one, run like hell until you break the other." The long jumper, as he waits his turn, has rather more intricate things to think about than that, but both men will move to their marks with the single-minded concentration of a specialist about to perform the job he has come to do.
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From that moment their paths diverge. The runner and the jumper become different beings, and for the runner things are rather easier. He comes under the direction of a starter, who dictates his every move until the pistol is fired. Then he is in a race. He may be "running like hell till he breaks the tape", but he is aware of his opponents; he can regulate his conduct to their performance, he can lengthen or shorten his stride and he can dive for the finish if he needs to. He is competing.
No field events specialist has that privilege. He is, from the time his name is called, as alone as he can possibly be. Everything is in his own hands. It is his decision when he begins his run-up, how fast he begins it, where he plants his feet, whether he pulls up half-way and begins again. He is jumping, essentially, against himself.
Conversely, the actual movements that he makes must adhere rigidly to the pattern he has rehearsed over and over again, session after session, year after year. The sprinter can let the breeze or the challenge from lane five or the roar of the crowd spur him to a quicker pick-up or a longer, more powerful stride. The long-jumper most decidedly must not: once the meticulous rhythm of a thousand practice jumps is allowed to stray, something is bound to go wrong — he will take off short of the board and lose valuable inches, or chop his stride to compensate and lose height and length, or over-stretch and record a no-jump.
Running is natural, whatever techniques are built into it by athlete and coach. A runner's body and mind can adjust to any given situation by speeding up, slowing down, coasting, spurting, minutely changing the angle of the feet to cut off an angle of a bend or avoid the heels of a rival. All field events, bound in by regulations to make each as uniform a test as possible, turn such natural acts as jumping and throwing into unnatural ones which have to be learned, and once learned not for an
Harold Abrahams' famous start
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instant in any detail forgotten. Which is why Olympic field competitions are primarily tests of nerve, and why no record holder or pre-con test favourite is ever home and dry until he can prove on the day that he can overcome the tension and behave under pressure just as he behaves on the practice field at home.
On that extraordinary May afternoon in 1935 at Ann Arbor, Michigan, when Jesse Owens broke or equalled six world records within an hour, there was one moment when the pressure might have been expected to get to him. As he stood waiting to start his series at the long jump pit, the man with the microphone focussed all eyes on him by announcing: "Jesse Owens will now attempt a new long jump world's record." It takes the nerves of a champion to perform to that build-up, but Owens had to jump only once that afternoon — he leapt 8.13 meters, the first time anyone had ever gone beyond 8 meters, to set a world record that stood for twenty-five years.
Pressure applied when an athlete is "fired up" is one thing. Pressure when things are going badly is quite another. At Helsinki in 1952 Yvette Williams was an accomplished long jumper strongly fancied as she left home to take the first ever Olympic medal by a New Zealand woman athlete. She had qualified for the final quite easily that morning, but in doing so she had wrenched a knee ligament on her practice run-up; she wasn't exactly worried about it, but she knew it was there.
Her first effort in the afternoon's final was a no-jump. Her second was a superb leap, high and strong, propelled by the perfect hitch-kick she had honed on the sand dunes of Dunedin over four long years of training. Her jump sailed past the world record mark... and received the red flag. It was another no-jump.
With a dodgy knee and nothing on the board to show for two jumps, she had just one more attempt, not merely to record a distance but to Join the best six; otherwise she would be out of the competition in the most humiliating way possible. Facing the end of the runway, beyond the pit, was a huge contingent of British, Australian and New Zealand tans, hardly daring to watch. At home the radio station was playing music all night, interspersed .with meagre and, to date, thoroughly discouraging news flashes about Yvette's progress in Helsinki. In Dunedin a special edition of the morning paper, with news of a New Zealand triumph, was waiting on the presses just in case New Zealand's prayers Gould be answered.
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And they were. With deliberation she moved back her check marks to make sure she took off before the tell-tale plasticene strip at the front of the board. Her jump was not a world-beater, but it took her into the top six, and to a further three jumps. With the first of these, her knee warning her at every step that she was not going to have its support much longer, she hit the board fair and square. She soared to within a quarter of an inch of Fanny Blankers-Koen's long-standing world record, took an unassailable lead, and won her gold medal. Nerve, poise and discipline had survived the pressure. The aggression and the pent-up power had been released only at that one instant in which a long jumper can afford to let rip — as her foot hit the board in perfect rhythm — and the instinct born of long practice converted it all into an unbeatable jump.
We find in the annals of the Olympics many instances of extraordinary courage and will-power displayed by athletes. Taken from a chapter called "Will of Steel" in the book The Olympics, here are a few such remarkable examples which do more for demonstrating the ultimate value of the modern Olympics than any argument that one may think of.
Olympic history is replete with stories of handicapped men and women who became champions, men and women who saw themselves not as what they were but as what they could become. They are the soul and the spirit of the Olympic movement, and it is this spirit which every four years rivets the world's attention on to one unique arena. As the official Olympic message says: "The Olympic Games tend to bring mankind together in union and harmony with the qualities that guide mankind to perfection."
The search for that perfection is hardest for those who have become victims of disease or accident.... Two Americans athletes, decathlete Rafer Johnson and shot putter Bill Neider, overcame serious injuries to win their respective events at Rome.
Twelve years before the Rome Olympics, during the same week in which Bob Mathias won the Olympic decathlon in London, Johnson was praying in a Kingsburg hospital that his left leg would not have to be amputated. This teenager's leg had been trapped in a peach convey or belt in Kingsburg, 25 miles north of Tulare, California, and badly
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crushed. The front of his toe hung precariously by the tissues. Twenty three stitches were needed to put back the spilling muscles and tissues.
The doctors saved the 12-year-old's leg but it never healed fully. Throughout his athletic career Johnson had difficulty wearing spikes; his discomfort was always clearly visible. But that was the smallest hurdle in a long effort which culminated in that dramatic decathlon victory; he was the greatest all-round athlete of the world. He had tabulated 8,392 points for an Olympic record.
William 'Bill' Neider was a big, powerful man who played football for Kansas University. One afternoon a bone-crushing blow across his right knee left him severely injured. Operation after operation proved unsuccessful in restoring flexibility to his damaged knee. That was the end of football — and for anyone else, it would also have meant the end of any career in sports. Then Neider saw some athletes shot putting and decided to give it a try. He became so engrossed with his new found passion that he didn't even realize that his knee was gradually bending. In Rome it was Neider who got the gold and the great Parry O'Berin who received the silver. Neider, who won the title in an Olympic record of 19.68m, also held the world record. Here was the case of a man who used a leg that doctors had labelled useless to win the Olympic gold medal.
Karloy Takacs looked down the barrel of his pistol and scored bull's eye after bull's eye to win the rapid fire pistol event of the 1948 Olympics in a world record of 580 points. The crowds were awestruck by his accuracy but a closer look would have surprised them even further. Takacs did not have a right hand.
He was one of the finest shooters in Europe from 1929 to 1938. During a patrol in 1938 a hand grenade had exploded in his right hand and ripped it off. He was lucky not to lose his life. One year later he left hospital without his shooting hand, but with his love for shooting still intact. He taught himself to shoot with his left hand and regained his place in the national side for the London Olympics at the age of 38. Four years later he retained his title.
In Melbourne in 1956 there was a girl who once could barely move a muscle in her body after a severe bout of polio; but there she was, standing on top of the Olympic rostrum receiving her gold medal with tears running down her cheeks. Anyone present could have dismissed her tears as understandable emotion. But those were not ordinary tears.
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They were tears of disbelief. Shelley Mann, tall and beautiful, could never have dreamt of such a day after polio struck her at the age of five. Doctors asked her to get into the swimming pool as an exercise, simply to restore some strength to her emaciated limbs; instead Mann became a world champion.
She recollected, after her Olympic victory, how she had cried in ecstasy the day she had managed to lift an arm out of the water. Soon, lifting her arm out of the water became an everyday achievement. Next she swam ten meters, then the breadth of the pool, then the length. Finally, the lengths began to multiply. Persistently, through months of labour, she worked life into her dead limbs. She became the greatest American swimmer of her time, setting eight national records and winning an Olympic medal. She won the 100 m butterfly in an Olympic record of 1 min 11.0 sec.
And finally here is the story of a loser, a beautiful story about man's dignity and courage in the face of defeat. As there are many more losers than winners in the Olympic Games, we feel to offer that story as a tribute to all those who have never won, but were nevertheless at that level of excellence that it takes to participate in the Olympic Games.
Dave and Linda Morecroft live with their family in Coventry, north of London. Dave Morecroft was born here, and today he supervises sports programmes for the children of Coventry. Dave Morecroft is esteemed in Great Britain. He is admired for his devotion to children, and for one magnificent day in July of 1982. On this day in Oslo, Dave Morecroft won the 5000 meters in world record time, running the distance nearly six seconds faster than anyone else had before. 28 years earlier, Roger Bannister became the first man to run the mile in under four minutes. Now Dave Morecroft had the chance to become the first man in history to run the 5000 meters in under 13 minutes. He missed by less than half a second, but incredibly beat the world record by more than 5 seconds. Although the Los Angeles Olympics were two years away, his performance was so impressive that he immediately became one of the favourites to win the 5000 meters Olympic gold medal.
It is Thursday, August 9, 1984, in the Los Angeles Coliseum. In the two years since his incredible world record run in Oslo, Morecroft had been beset with crippling injuries. He had not fully recovered from a
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stress fracture of leg, a debilitating attack of hepatitis, and a pelvic disorder that on certain days made it impossible for him to run.
Morecroft had advanced to the semi-finals, after a comparatively easy race the day before in the qualifying round. The runners must circle the 400 meters track twelve and a half times. In this semi-final that day, Morecroft faced a difficult challenge. John Walker of New Zealand, the 1976 Olympic champion of the 1500 hundred meters, had moved up to the 5000 meters. And 23 year old Saheed Oweda of Morocco had won the second fastest 5000 meters in history, only 4 seconds slower than Morecroft's world-record time. Oweda had a superb competitive record. A few weeks before the games he announced he would run the 1500 meters, an event in which he had run the fastest time of the year. Shortly before the opening day, he withdrew from the 1500 meters, but remained in the 5000 meters race.
With 200 meters left in his semi-final, Morecroft has survived the test: he was running without pain. Oweda led Morecroft running on the inside, and John Walker on the outside. But this finish had little meaning — the first six men in the semi-final qualify for the final. "I felt comfortable in the semi-final. But it's difficult to tell at this stage, because you always try to conserve energy, trying to run as easily as you can, and I was aware that Oweda and Walker and others were running reasonably quickly, but I felt comfortable at the pace."
Two days later, over 90,000 spectators awaited the outcome of the 5000 meters. Two of the spectators were Linda and Paul Morecroft, Dave Morecroft's wife and son. Linda : "I had spoken to Dave on the morning of the race, and he said he felt fine. The injury was paining some, but no more than usual. It wasn't until I saw him warming up that I realized that something was amiss. He seemed to be dragging his leg a little, which meant that his pelvis had tilted again." Dave: "And that's when I started thinking I really shouldn't be running, but I guess you're sort of hoping for a miracle. I was trying to forget the fact that the warm-up hadn't gone so well. I hoped that within a couple of laps of the final I might be running reasonably freely.
The race began. There were 14 finalists. Saheed Oweda of Morocco fell comfortably into third place to assure a fast pace. But for Dave Morecroft, there was anguish. He was in intense pain just a few seconds into the race. Dave later said: "I was absolutely certain that there was no way I could keep up with the pace. In such a situation, there are many
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different emotions: there is an element of panic, there is disappointment, there is being scared that you won't finish. Basically all you're trying to do is put one foot in front of the other — that's all you can do..."
After two laps, Dave was in last place. Linda Morecroft recalls: "I still hoped he could get into the race. I still hoped he could salvage something. But by the fourth lap his injury was hurting him so much that he couldn't salvage anything. The pace was so fast that he just couldn't get into the race." With seven laps to go, and his chances of victory gone, Dave Morecroft had thoughts about his wife Linda watching from the stands. "It was a very difficult situation for her because she could do nothing about it. I knew that she had watched me do training sessions where things had gone badly, and she knew what I was going through. I had never once dropped out of a race yet, because I knew that once you do, you have given yourself an option for the future. But I must admit I would have been quite happy if somebody had dragged me off the track!"
Coming down the track with two laps to go, six men were still in contention. Latao from Portugal led, followed by Saheed Oweda of Morocco... All eyes were on the leaders. But for Dave and Linda Morecroft, there was another race, a personal one. More than 350 meters behind the leaders, he was in danger of being lapped. Linda Morecroft remembers: "I felt like bursting into tears. In fact, I was secretly hoping that he would pull out, because I just didn't want to have to watch him go further and further back. I was afraid he would be lapped, and kept praying: Please, don't let him be lapped!" With one lap to go, Latao of Portugal led, with Saheed Oweda of Morocco at his shoulders... With just 250 meters left, Saheed Oweda made his move and passed Latao of Portugal. Into the final turn, Oweda led.
Thirty meters in front of him, Dave Morecroft feared he will be lapped: "I didn't want to look behind like a frightened rabbit. But I pulled into the second lane because I thought that if they're going to pass me, I don't want to get in their way." But Dave Morecroft crossed the finish before the others. He gained his personal triumph and Saheed Oweda won the gold medal. Now that it was over, there was the recognition of what had been done. Saheed Oweda became the first man to win a gold medal for Morocco. And Dave Morecroft had completed his long, painful journey with honour. Saheed Oweda stood on the highest step of the victory platform. The victory scoreboard recorded the first
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eight. In the upper right comer, there was still the world record time of Dave Morecroft, a final honour and tribute to the magnificent day two years earlier when he had run the fastest 5000 meters ever.
At the end of this brief presentation of the modern Olympic Games, one may be left with a question: have they truly manifested something of the ideals that were enunciated by Pierre de Coubertin. It probably can only get a mixed answer. At times, sport idealism seems very remote from the mixture of commercialism and greed that can be felt around the more recent Olympic Games. They have become in effect big business, both for the city which is hosting the games and for the large companies which are sponsoring athletes. National politics are also quite often involved. Despite these limitations, there is still a magic of the Olympic Games. They help to focus the energies of athletes, they provide inspiration and emulation. Even in the most expensive and extravagant Olympic events are unaccountable moments of greatness in victory or defeat. Human oneness is experienced, not by the mind, but by the hearts of the athletes and the audience. Brought home through instant world-wide visual communication, the Olympic Games are a powerful symbol of a divided world aspiring to grow through the experience that all human beings are, really, members of one body.
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List of Olympics in modern times
Competitors
Cancelled 'because of World War I
Tokyo, Japan,
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Olympic Events in each discipline (Summer Games)
Track and Field
Men
100 Meters, 200 Meters, 400 Meters, 800 Meters, 1500 Meters, 5000 Meters, 10,000 Meters, Marathon, 110-Meter Hurdles, 400-Meter Hurdles, 3000-Meter Steeplechase, 4 x 100-Meter, Relay, 4 x 400 Meter Relay, 20,000-Meter Walk,
50,000-Meter Walk, High Jump, Pole Vault, Long Jump, Triple Jump, Shot Put, Discus Throw, Hammer Throw, Javelin Throw, Decathlon.
Women
100 Meters, 200 Meters, 400 Meters, 800 Meters, 1500 Meters, 3000 Meters, 10,000 Meters, Marathon, 100-Meter Hurdles, 400-Meter Hurdles, 4 x 100 Meter Relay, 4 x 400-Meter Relay, High Jump, Long Jump, Shot Put, Discus Throw, Javelin Throw,
Heptathlon/Pentathlon.
Archery
Men: Individual, Team.
Women: Individual, Team
Basketball
Men — Women
Boxing
Light Flyweight, Flyweight, Bantamweight, Featherweight, Lightweight, Light Welterweight, Welterweight, Light Middleweight, Light Heavyweight, Heavyweight, Super Heavyweight.
Canoeing
Kayak Singles 500 Meters, Kayak Singles 100 Meters, Kayak Pairs 500 Meters, Kayak Pairs 1000 Meters, Kayak Fours 1000 Meters, Canadian Singles 500 Meters, Canadian Singles 1000 Meters, Canadian pairs 500 Meters, Canadian Pairs 1000 Meters.
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Kayak Singles 500 Meters, Kayak Pairs 500 Meters, Kayak Fours 500 Meters.
Cycling
1000-Meter Sprint (Scratch), 1000-Meter Time Trail, 4000-Meter Individual Pursuit, 4000-Meter Team Pursuit, Points Race, Road Race, Team Time Trail.
1000-Meter Sprint (Scratch)
Road Race
Equestrian
Three-Day Event, Individual, Three-Day Event Team, Jumping (Individual) (Prix des Nations), Jumping (Team) (Prix des Nations), Dressage, Individual, Dressage, Team
Fencing
Foil-Individual, Foil-Team, Epee-Team, Sabre-Individual, Sabre-Team
Foil-Individual, Foil-Team
Field Hockey
Football (Soccer)
Gymnastics
All-Around, Horizontal Bar, Parallel Bars, Long Horse Vault, Side Horse (Pommeled Horse), Rings, Floor Exercise, Team Combined Exercises.
All-Around, Side Horse Vault, Asymmetrical (Uneven) Bars, Balance Beam, Floor Exercise, Team Combined Exercises, Rhythmic Ail-Around.
Team Handball
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Judo
Extra-Lightweight, Half-Lightweight, Lightweight, Half-Middleweight, Middleweight, Half-Heavyweight, Heavyweight, Open.
Modem Pentathlon
Individual — Team
Rowing
Single Sculls, Double Sculls, Quadruple Sculls, Pair-Oared Shell without Coxswain, Pair-Oared Shell with Coxswain, Four-Oared Shell without Coxswain, Four-Oared Shell with Coxswain, Eight-Oared Shell with Coxswain.
Single Sculls, Double Sculls, Quadruple Sculls with Coxswain, Pair-Oared Shell without Coxswain, Four-Oared Shell with Coxswain, Eight-Oared Shell with Coxswain.
Shooting
Rapid-fire Pistol, Free Pistol, Small-Bore Rifle (Prone), Small-Bore Rifle (Three Positions), Moving Target, Air Rifle.
Sport Pistol, Air Pistol, Small-Bore Rifle, Three Positions, Air Rifle.
Mixed
Trap Shooting, Skeet Shooting
Swimming
50-m Freestyle, 100-m Freestyle, 200-m Freestyle, 400-m Freestyle, 1500-m Freestyle, 100-m Backstroke, 200-m Backstroke, 100-m Breaststroke, 200-m Breaststroke, 100-m Butterfly, 200-m Butterfly, 200-m Individual Medley, 400-m Individual Medley, 4 x 100-m medley relay, Synchronized swimming: solo, Synchronized swimming: duet, Springboard diving, Platform diving.
50-m Freestyle, 100-m Freestyle, 200-m Freestyle, 400-m Freestyle, 1500-m Freestyle, 100-m Backstroke, 200-m Backstroke, 100-m Breaststroke, 200-m Breaststroke, 100-m Butterfly, 200-m Butterfly, 200-m Individual Medley, 400-m Individual Medley, 4 x 100-m medley relay. Synchronized swimming: solo. Synchronized swimming: duet. Springboard diving. Platform diving.
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Table tennis
Singles, Doubles
Tennis
Volleyball
Weightlifting
Flyweight, Bantamweight, Featherweight, Lightweight, Middleweight, Light Heavyweight, Middle Heavyweight, 100 Kg, Heavyweight, Super Heavyweight Unlimited Weight.
Freestyle wrestling
Light Flyweight, Flyweight, Bantamweight,
Featherweight, Lightweight, Welterweight, Middleweight, Light Heavyweight, Heavyweight, Super Heavyweight.
Greco-Roman wrestling
Light Flyweight, Flyweight, Bantamweight, Featherweight, Lightweight, Welterweight, Middleweight, Light Heavyweight, Heavyweight, Super Heavyweight.
Yachting
Mixed, Windglider, Finn, Star, Flying Dutchman, Tornado, Soling.
Men: 470
Women: 470
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Discontinued sports events
Cricket, Croquet, Golf, Jeu de Paume, Lacrosse, Motor Boating, Polo, Rackets, Roque, Rugby, Tug of War.
* *
Olympic Winter Games
Since 1924, there are also "Winter Games," which are held the same year, generally preceding the main summer game. The main disciplines are Alpine Skiing, Biathlon, Bobsled, Cross Country Skiing, Curling, Figure Skating, Freestyle Skiing, Ice Hockey, Luge, Nordic Combined, Skeleton, Ski Jumping, Snowboarding and Speed Skating.
Asian Games
India is the founder of Asian Games. The first Asian Games were held at the National Stadium in New Delhi from March 4 to 11, 1951. The subsequent Asian Games were held at Manila in 1954, Tokyo in 1958, Jakarta in 1962, Bangkok in 1966 and 1970, Teheran in 1974 and Bangkok in 1978. After nearly 32 years, Asian Games were held in India again in 1982 (ninth Asian games). Then Seoul in 1986, Beijing in 1990, Hiroshima in 1994, Bangkok 1998 and Busan 2002..
Origin of Asian Games
The idea of holding a sports meet on the Olympic pattern for the Asian countries was mooted in 1934 by the late Maharaja Yadavendra Singh of Patiala and Professor G.D. Sondhi. The first West Asiatic Games were held in New Delhi in February 1934 in which four countries — India, Afghanistan, Ceylon and Palestine — participated. These games were to -be held every four years but the next Games scheduled to be held in Tel Aviv in 1938 could not take place. The concept of Western Asiatic Games was then extended to the whole of Asia. This idea of Professor G.D. Sondhi received a further impetus during the Asian Relations Conference in 1947. However, the idea of India hosting a comprehensive meet was rejected by the Indian Olympic Association Council
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meeting held at Lucknow in July 1947.
The Asian Games Federation (AGF) was the result of the determined dream of its founder, the late Mr. G.S. Sondhi of India, to promote development of an Asian identity, in fact an Asian Unity through sports. Despite initial setbacks it was formed on February 13, 1949 in New Delhi, where the delegates drafted a constitution. They decided to hold the Asian Games every four years, midway between the Olympic Games, and also agreed on the simple motto which was designed and proposed by Mr. Sondhi "Ever Onward" on top of an Orange Sun that represents the ever glimmering and warm spirit of the Asian people.
It is no doubt thanks to the continued efforts of Professor Sondhi and the untiring endeavours of Maharaja Yadavendra Singh, with the blessings of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, that the Asian Games Federation was finally formed and India, being the founder member of this body, was given the honour of organizing the first Asian Games. The Indian Olympic Association then revised its earlier decision and itself offered to hold the first Asian Games in Feb. 1950 which too could not take place as per schedule. The Maharaja of Patiala was elected the first President of the Asian Games Federation and Professor Sondhi was made the Secretary-cum-Treasurer. The first Asian Games were actually held in New Delhi from March 4 to 11, 1951, at the Irwin Amphitheatre (National Stadium).
First Asian Games.
March 4, 1951, is considered to be a red letter day in the sports history of India. The first Indian President, Dr. Rajendra Prasad, inaugurated the first Asian Games on this day. As Dr. Prasad declared the Games open at 4.15 p.m., the 40,000 joyous spectators present at the National Stadium burst into applause and guns were fired from the Purana Quila. The flags of the eleven participating countries flew majestically around the stadium. Pt. Nehru gave a short crisp message on this occasion: "Play the game in the spirit of the game." A large number of balloons and pigeons were released in the stadium. After the inauguration, the Asian Games Federation flag — a blazing sun and eleven interlinked blue rings against a white background — was unfurled. The 600 competitors from the eleven contesting countries, namely, Afghanistan, Burma, Ceylon, Indonesia, Iran, Japan, Malaya, the Philippines, Singapore, Thailand, and host India, dressed in their national sports dress, then marched round the stadium and saluted the President as they passed the saluting base.
Brigadier Dalip Singh (57), who had represented India in the Olympics in 1924 and 1928, had the privilege of becoming the first Asian Games torch-bearer. The torch was lit by the sun's rays with the help of a lens at the historic Red Fort and was carried to the National Stadium by relay of 50 athletes. Brigadier Dalip
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Singh was greeted with thunderous applause as he entered the arena with the torch and lighted the sacred flame which was kept burning all through the games.
During the eight days of the games, 600 competitors from 11 countries participated for 55 events in 6 sports, viz., athletics, basketball, cycling, foot ball, swimming, and weightlifting. Japan emerged the top sporting nation with 24 gold medals, followed by India who won 16 golds.
The closing ceremony was as grand as the opening one, and was on the Olympic pattern. Prime Minister Nehru took the salute. The participating nations marched past, but not in alphabetical order, thus indicating the friend ship developed among the competitors. After a brief closing speech by the Maharaja of Patiala, the flag and the torch were handed over to the Chief Commissioner of Delhi for safe keeping till the Games were held again four years later in Manila (Philippines) in 1954. Eleven guns were fired from the Purana Quila and with the National Anthem, the first Asian Games came to an end.
Other Asian games
2nd Asian Games: 1954 Manila (Philippines)
1021 participants from 18 countries
Milkha Singh, winner of the 200
and 400 m in the Tokyo Asian
Games, 1958
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3rd Asian Games: 1958 Tokyo (Japan)
1400 participants from 20 countries
4th Asian Games: 1962 Jakarta (Indonesia)
1500 participants from 20 countries
5th Asian Games: 1966 Bangkok (Thailand)
1945 participants from 18 countries
6th Asian Games: 1970 Bangkok (Thailand)
2000 participants from 18 countries
(Burma, Kampuchea, Ceylon, Honking, India, Indonesia, Iran, Israel, Japan, Malaysia, Singapore, South Korea, Taiwan, Nepal, Pakistan, the Philippines, South Vietnam and Thailand)
7th Asian Games: 1974 Teheran (Iran)
3000 participants from 25 countries
8th Asian Games: 1978 Bangkok (Thailand)
3000 from 21 countries
9th Asian Games: 1982 Delhi (India)
(25 countries) 16 days from 19-11 to 4-12-1982 184 events in 22 Disciplines
(Archery, (6 events), Athletics (40 events) Badminton (7 events), Basketball (2 events) Boxing (12 weight categories), Cycling (7 events), Equestrian (3 events), Football, Golf (6 event), Gymnastics (9 events). Handball (1 event) Hockey, (men) Hockey (women), Rowing (4 events), Shooting (11 events). Swimming (34 events), Table Tennis (7 events) Tennis (7 events) Volley ball (2 events) Weightlifting (10 categories), Wrestling (10 categories), Yachting (4 events in the Arabian Sea and Bombay)
10th Asian Games: 1986 Seoul (South Korea)
1st Asian Winter Games: 1986 Sapporo (Japan)
As the Asiad gained recognition as the Olympic of Asia, the desire to develop a winter version of the Asian Games had begun to materialize. With the promotion of winter sports in Asia and the improvement of competitive skills as primary objectives, the inauguration of Winter Asian Games was approved during the OCA General Assembly held in Seoul, Korea in September 1984. Japan was given the privilege of hosting the 1st Winter Asian Games in Sapporo, for it had both the expertise and infrastructures gained through the 1972 Sapporo Winter Olympic games. 7 countries including India and Mongolia participated.
11th Asian Games: 1990 Beijing (China)
(25 Countries participated: Bangladesh, China, Chinese Taipei,
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Honking, India, Indonesia, Iran, Japan, Laos, Macau, Malaysia, Mongolia, Myanmar, Nepal, North Korea, Oman, Pakistan, Philippines, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Syria, Thailand.)
2nd Asian Winter Games: 1990 Sapporo (Japan)
Due to various difficulties, India had to renounce the privilege of hosting the 2nd Winter Asian Games. The inaugural host city, Sapporo, the winter sports capital of Asia, was then selected again. In addition to the last Winter Games, Taiwan, Philippines and Iran made their entry to bring the total number of participating countries to 10. In medal tally, the order was Japan, China and South Korea.
12th Asian Games: 1994 Hiroshima (Japan)
(In addition to the countries which participated in 1990, several newly independent Asian republics which were formerly part of the Soviet Union have sent athletes for the first time: Kazakstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan. Also Cambodia was able to send a team for the first time since 1974)
(Disciplines: Archery, Athletics, Badmington, Baseball, Bowling, Boxing, Canoeing, Cycling, Equestrian, Fencing, Golf, Gymnastics, Handball, Hockey, Judo, Kabaddi, Karatedo, Modern Pentathlon (Fencing, Swimming, Shooting, Running, Riding), Rowing, Sepak Takrew, Shooting, Soccer, Softball, Soft Tennis, Swimming, Table Tennis, Taekwondo, Tennis, Volleyball, Weightlifting, Wrestling, Wushu,Yatchting.)
For the first time in the history of the Asian Games, an Asiad was held in non-capital city of the host country. Levelled by an atomic Bomb during World War II, the city of Hiroshima, Japan, hosted the 12th Asian Games, highlighting the themes Peace and Harmony. It also marked the second Asiad to be held in Japan since the 3rd Asian Games in Tokyo, 1958. Cambodia made her come back to the Asian Games after 20 years' absence. 43 countries and regions participated, 5 former Soviet Republics of Kazakhstan, Kyrgystan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan & Uzbekistan, who were recently included as members of OCA, were received with warm welcome. Baseball, Karatedo, Modern Pentathlon and Soft Tennis were added to make 34 disciplines in total.
3rd Asian Winter Games: 1996 Harbin (China)
The Democratic People's Republic Korea (North Korea) was not able to honour its commitment as the host of the 3rd Asian Winter games. Instead, Harbin, a northern city of China, was given an
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opportunity to host the Games. A big leap in number of participating countries/NOCs and regions, 17 in total, along with more than 700 participants provided enough proof that the Winter Asian Games had become an international event of high calibre 10 years after its conception. China, the host country, ranked in most of the medals followed by Kazakhstan.
13th Asian Games: 1998 Bangkok (Thailand)
Bangkok, the capital of Thailand, held yet another Asiad for the 4th time. With the eventual hosting of the Olympic Games in sight, Thailand's effort to host the 13th Asiad begun as far back as in 1988, during the Seoul Olympiad. Due to the dwindling Asian economy that resulted in the devastating Asian currency crisis of 1997/98, serious concerns were raised on the feasibility of Thailand for staging the Games. However, galvanized with the know-how of having hosted three successful Asiad and with utter dedication, Bangkok bounced back stronger than ever to stage one of the greatest Asian Games. Also, it was the first Game with comprehensive marketing plan for generating revenues to be shared by member countries for the promotion of sports. With 36 sports and 2 demonstration events, Rugby, Billiards & Snooker and Squash were added to the list. China, South Korea and Japan were the top three contenders for medals. Thailand, Kazakhstan and Taiwan did quite well also.
4th Asian Winter Games: 1999 Kangwon (South Korea)
The Northern province of South Korea, Kangwon, was the stage of the 4th Asian Winter Game. In medal tally, China maintained her supremacy, followed by South Korea, Japan and Kazakhstan.
14th Asian Games: 2002 Busan (South Korea)
September 29 to October 14 2002 (16 days).
Location; The Greater Busan Metropolitan area. (The games utilized stadiums in Changwon, Masan, Yangsan and other cities for some events.)
Number of countries: 43
(37 disciplines: Athletics, Swimming, Archery, Badminton, Baseball, Basketball, Billiards, Body Building, Bowling, Boxing, Canoeing, Cycling, Equestrian, Fencing, Football, Golf, Gymnastics, Handball, Hockey, Judo, Kabaddi, Modern Pentathlon, Rowing, Rugby, Sepak Takraw, Shooting, Softball, Soft Tennis, Squash, Table Tennis, Taekwondo, Tennis, Volleyball, Weight Lifting, Wrestling, Wushu, Yachting.)
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5th Asian Winter Games: 2003 Aomori (Japan)
Period: February 1, 2003 to February 8, 2003
Location: Aomori Prefecture, Japan
Sports: 6 sports, 54 events
Skiing: Alpine Skiing, Ski Jumping, Cross-Country Skiing, Freestyle Skiing.
Site: Owani International ski Area, on the slopes of Mt. Ajara, (altitude: 709m).
Skating: Speed Skating, Short Track. Site: Hachinohe City, Misawa City
Figure Skating & Curling Site: Aomori Prefectural Skating Rink
Ice Hockey Site: Hachinohe City
Biathlon Site: Iwaki Town
The Olympic Council of Asia (OCA)
The formation of the Olympic Council of Asia (OCA) was approved in New Delhi, India, during the Asian Games Federation (AGF) Council meeting held on November 26, 1981, which was attended by duly accredited representatives of the affiliated Asian National Olympic Committees. One year later it was officially founded on December 5, 1982 in New Delhi during the IX Asian Games which were held there as the last games under the "AGF" umbrella.
The OCA main aim is to help develop the moral and physical qualities of the youth of Asia by fair competition in amateur sports, friendship, international respect and goodwill.
The OCA is the governing body of all sports in Asia, with the mandate to supervise and encourage sport at the highest competitive levels. It presides over a vast geographic area which includes the Far East and the Middle East, as well as some countries from the former Soviet Union.
The permanent headquarters of the OCA is in Kuwait.
Note based on informations from
Handbook of Asian Games,
(published by Rupa & Co, Delhi 1982)
as well as from
the Asian Games web site.
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with
Narottam Puri
(Narottam Puri is a well known sport journalist and commentator in India)
About common attitudes in India
We, Indians, have a tendency to copy the West. To take an example, Hatha Yoga was almost a forgotten art here in India till the West took it up.
As a medical man, I consider the basis of yoga to be sound in termsof health; for instance, the importance given to breathing. But Yoga has also a spiritual meaning, which may be the reason why it practically disappeared from the average man's life, as it was too deep.
In India , we made the mistake of not pursuing the practical applications of the theoretical knowledge that we possess. In the West, it is applied in day-to-day life and becomes therefore popularized.
Nowhere in the world do we find lesser importance given to physical education than in India. The role of physical education in mental development is now universally recognized, but I don't think it is so well accepted here in our society.
Once I had a very interesting conversation with the sport editor of a big Japanese paper. He was wondering why India was not doing so well in many sports. He asked me: "Why do you Indians consider that a pot-bellied man is a successful man?" In India, well fed means successful, doing well in life. The perception that a pot-belly is rather a sign of disease has not yet penetrated, although there are signs of changes, particularly in big cities, as the world is becoming smaller.
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About the neglect of physical education
To my mind, physical education is a totally neglected field in our sys tem of education. In school, we are receiving education from the teacher. But who is educating the teacher about the importance of physical education? No one. The most important task now is to teach the teachers. We should target first the colleges of India.
But our society is also to be blamed: why should a good physical education teacher have lower status, be less paid and have fewer career opportunities than other teachers? As a result, too often you get only less brilliant persons in such posts and it explains why physical education is too often badly taught.
If physical education is a part of the curriculum but is given no importance as a subject, it becomes self-defeating. There is no evaluation, there is no talent scouting.
About the importance of proper training from young age
There are three mother sports: athletics, aquatics, gymnastics. A child should be encouraged when he is 6 to 10 years old to participate in any or all of these mother sports. It is only at about the age of 12 that specialization should come, when overall development through the mother sports is sufficient. Only in gymnastics specialization tends to start quite early: usually around 6, but sometimes like in Rumania as early as 3. It happens also sometimes in swimming.
One point is very important: specialization should be determined by medical study. There are certain medical tests, like biopsy of tissues, which give indications about the kind of sport which is best suited. Certain muscle fibres allow more rapidity but less endurance, other fibres are the opposite. Particularly in competitive sport, this knowledge is very important to give a proper orientation. It does not apply to gymnastics where it is more a question of flexibility.
A very high level of fitness is indispensable even in activities which look less physically demanding: to become a top archer, for instance, you have to develop a capacity to concentrate,, to focus, to maintain a posture without tremors. This can be acquired through yoga exercises or specialized exercises.
You cannot have a champion who is only physical: there has to be a balance between physical and mental. Physical fitness is not merely Physical: it should be a state of complete physical and mental well
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being of an individual in which the parameters for health are fully met. Health consciousness in India is still very low.
About the need of a proper strategy a/development
In India we have not been able so far to decide whether we want to build a better sport infrastructure or if we want medals and glory in international sport. As a result, not much money is available for the fundamentals of sport building. My personal feeling is that given the scenario in the rest of the world and our limitations as a poor nation, what is important is to forget about gold medals for the time being.
We should simply state that sport till the age of 12 should be compulsory, and we should provide children with basic infrastructures for mother sports: athletics, gymnastics, aquatics. In other words, in every district at least, let the Government provide one stadium, gymnasium, swimming pool, well maintained, instead of spending money to participate in so many competitions. If we were to spend that much money in providing for playgrounds, it will generally uplift the standard of physical fitness in the country and, who knows, someone may one day reach the level of world championship.
India never really chose between the two main ways about sport: the commercial way of the West and the public funding of the East. My solution would be to let Government be responsible for infrastructure and ensuring serious physical education till the age of 12. After that, the sport federations should take over and do their job. Money can be obtained from private sponsors like it is currently done in the West. Let him or her who is gifted be supported by private parties. The real problem is that bureaucrats do not want to lose their power and therefore do not let such possibilities manifest.
As money is very limited, it has to be managed very well. I cannot blame the Government for allotting only limited funds for sports and physical education: in the present state of poverty in the country, there are more basic investments needed to uplift the lives of people, such as providing water, shelter, energy, etc. But I can blame it and I do blame it for an inefficient use of the available funds. Running after medals in international competition when most of the time you reap only humiliations seems to me to be a bad strategy.
The Chinese once were faced with the same problem: their athletes failed to win in international competition. They decided to withdraw
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them. They ordered their coaches to study the methods of the successful countries and adapt them. Then, after several years, Chinese athletes reappeared in international competitions and were able to compete with the best in many fields. Naturally, they were able to do such a thing because China is an authoritarian State. Here in India we are a free society and such methods cannot be used in the same way.
About the results obtained through international competition
Some people say that only through participation in international com petition can you realize the gap between your standard and the world standard. Even assuming that to be true, we have done enough of that: India has been participating in international competitions since 1928. Apart from Hockey, the only medal India ever won has been a bronze medal in wrestling during the Helsinski Olympics. All the other medals, gold, silver, bronze, have been won in Hockey.
Ironically, the sports in which India is doing well are really the elitist sports, cricket, tennis, polo, which, even if they are no longer the
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Maharajas' sports still require a lot of money. In tennis, we have done rather well, much much better than some of the developed countries. We have reached three times the Challenge Round, that is, the finals in the Davis Cup, which is a remarkable achievement.
About the problem of motivation
Lots of Indians do very well at junior levels, even at world level. But later, at senior levels, it slips, because after junior levels in India, many athletes are looking for jobs and security. Most Indian athletes aspire for State and National levels, because it is a good way to get jobs in State companies. As it is now, most Indian athletes go out of India, in international competitions, already beaten: they do not believe they can win. Their horizon is very limited. As a result, there are very few sport heroes here, with the exception of those in Cricket. So for our youths, there are no models, which is a great pity.
About Adventure Programmes
There are tremendous possibilities about adventure programmes in India, but the average Indian is not a very adventurous person. The sense of enjoyment is lacking. So, despite an unbelievable potential here, it is mostly the foreign tourists who go for adventure sports. It is again a problem of attitude: most teachers in India would say: "Don't waste fifteen days on a trek; better you study geography. Treks won't give you a job."
Now, if in interviews for jobs, questions were put like: "How many safaris have you participated in?" or "Have you been river rafting?" then attitudes would change and adventure sports would be perceived differently.
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Running
I — P. T. Usha
Dawn on a quiet beach in Kerala. The first light shows a narrow sandy path running through swaying palms. A lithe runner in a grey tracksuit comes into view, loping effortlessly ahead of a short rotund man who struggles to keep up. P.T. Usha and O.M. Nambiar make an odd twosome: one five foot seven inches of lean muscle, the other short and running to fat. Ten years ago, when they first came together, the athlete found it difficult to keep up with the coach. Now, with great patience, she tolerates his tortoise-like pace. With long measured strides she darts ahead, then jogs back and exchanges a few words with the coach before pacing forward again.
The Asian gold medal winner is on her regular three and a half kilometre run which begins at her home and ends at the Payyob beach near the midpoint of the Malabar Coast in Kerala. "I love being on the beach," she says, "it's my favourite training spot. The vastness gives me a sense of freedom which I don't experience anywhere else. After training on sand, running on the track seems so simple. I literally float, as, unlike sand, hard ground offers no resistance. My first experience of running on sand was long before I was introduced to disciplined result-oriented running."
Usha was born in 1964, and grew up in a village by the Kerala seashore. "I had to take just twenty steps from my bed before sand was beneath my feet. When I ran to school it was on sand. If I ran a house hold errand it was on sand. Every step I took was on sand. Unknowingly, I went through some very effective and rigorous training." Eventually her athletic potential was recognized and when she was 12 she joined the Sports Division Scheme instituted by the Kerala State Sports Council. In her first year, Usha turned out to be an exceptional talent. In 1977, the thirteen year old was the individual champion in the women's section at the All India Rural Sports meet, winning the 100
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metres, the 200 metres, the long jump, the high jump and helping the 4 x 100 metres relay team to victory. From the first, Nambiar was her trainer. "Her talent was always quite visible," he remembers. "In school when I made the girls practice starts she invariably led the pace. But more than the talent, what really struck me about her was her discipline and diligence. She always did the exercises as shown and never played truant."
O.V. Madhavan Nambiar was born in 1936 in Kerala. He joined the Indian Air Force in 1955, there revealing his sporting talents by becoming the decathlon champion of the Air Force. In 1966 he became coach of the Air Force Athletic Team, and in 1976, the same year that Usha joined the Kerala Sports Division, Nambiar was appointed a coach there. This began their long and fruitful athletic partnership, up to the end of Usha's running career.
P.T.Usha's rise to the top was quite phenomenal. But from the time she made her mark at the national level Usha had to weather many a crisis and injury in the long path to success. She won her first international events in the Pakistan International meet in 1980. But the world began to notice the lanky girl from Kerala when she won two silver medals at the New Delhi Asian Games in 1982. She followed up these triumphs with numerous medal winning efforts in various national and international events. However, it was in the newly-introduced 400 metre hurdles at the Olympic Games in Los Angeles in 1982 that Usha revealed her tremendous potential and gave a chance for the world to look at her emerging as a truly world-class athlete. She narrowly missed (by one-hundredth of a second) being the first Indian track and field athlete to win an Olympic medal for India.
A year later, Usha, by now a mature athlete, won five gold medals at the Jakarta Asian Track and Field meet. Then at the Seoul Asian Games at Seoul in 1986, she won four gold medals. But then there was to be a slide in her fortunes, and an injury-stricken Usha suffered a first-round defeat at the 1988 Olympic Games. Surrounded by criticism, it seemed that Usha would give up athletics once and for all. But, a born fighter, Usha was to prove her critics wrong as she made yet another remarkable comeback at the 1989 Asian Track and Field
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Game's at New Delhi, helping India to place second in the overall medal tally.
In 1990, in Beijing, Pillavalakanki Thekaparambil Usha ran her last race on a cool autumn evening at the Asian Games. Sixteen years after the little girl realized she could outrun just anybody her age. Her final event, the women's 400-metre relay, gave Usha her third silver medal of the games.
Usha did more for Indian athletics than several generations of runners. And she bid adieu to the track in the same simple and dignified manner in which she scorched it in search of excellence. Usha made no special pleas for recognition. She concentrated on what she had trained herself to do: run.
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Emil Zatopek (left), the "Czech Express"
II — Zatopek
Zatopek had first realized his own potential in 1941, when he was nineteen, and he had improved steadily but unspectacularly at 800 and 1500 metres until 1945, when the great Swedish middle-distance runner Arne Anderson paid a short visit to Prague. Andersen's physical condition, and the quality of his background work, transformed Zatopek's own training. He added quality to the quantity he had already established, and blended both with the extraordinary determination he had acquired for stretching his own body to the utmost whether in a race or a training session. Even on army sentry duty he might spend an hour running on the spot, knees high, shoulders straight, loading ever more stamina into the training bank. He trained, in those years of his mid-twenties, harder than any athlete had ever trained before. In the winter, when by unwritten law no-one trained hard, he put on heavy baseball shoes, or even army boots, and ran through the snow-covered forests — fast quarter or half-miles with short intervals of jogging between, bounding sometimes in long, looping strides for half a mile at a stretch — observing all the time the effect the work was having on his body.
Coaches today would have channelled the work with far greater economy. They would have tempered the hard workouts with more relaxed sessions; they would have spent hours streamlining Zatopek's tortured, hunched style (a contemporary said he ran like a man who had just been stabbed in the" heart); they might even have made him run a little faster. But he had built for himself in these long hours of relent less self-punishment a capacity for sustained speed — over ten laps or twenty laps — that few runners in the world could match, and a reserve tank at the end of a race to allow him to run flat out for a lap. It was enough ammunition to beat the world.
He took on the best over the grey cinders of Wembley Stadium on the first day of athletics at the 1948 Games. In one of the few warm
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days of that fortnight he ran the 10,000 metres field into the ground. The Finn Viljo Heino, world record holder and favorite for the title, ran with Zatopek's pace for half the race; then Zatopek surged for half a lap and opened up a gap of ten yards. Heino simply stopped. No-one else got within shouting distance of the Czech, and to the delighted chants of his compatriots in the crowd he won by three-quarters of a lap.
The next day he qualified in the heats of the 5000 metres for a final as strange as it was exciting. Again Zatopek commanded the leading bunch which soon reduced itself to three men — him, Reiff of Belgium, Slijkhuis of Holland. Three laps from the finish Reiff pounced, and opened up an apparently unassailable lead on Slijkhuis, with Zatopek, who appeared to have lost heart or concentration or perhaps just strength, in a hopeless position forty metres from the leader. So they stayed until the start of the final back straight when, with the race as good as over, all hell broke loose as Zatopek began his sprint.
Within seconds he had raced past the tiring Slijkhuis, and began to close on Reiff. As the final bend unfolded, with the whole crowd on their feet roaring, it suddenly began to look as if Reiff could lose. Ahead of Reiff, eighty yards away over the puddles and the squelchy cinders, was the tape; but his effort had come, with great courage, three laps before, and he was nearly spent. And behind him there was the lunatic sprinting. As the tape drew nearer, even above the yelling of the crowd he could hear the pattering, splashing danger of Zatopek. He dragged one last effort out of his legs, and the gold medal — Belgium's first ever Olympic track victory — was his. Five yards more, and it could have been a dead heat. Ten yards more and Zatopek would have won.
As it was, it was yet another in a whole succession of breathtaking Olympic 5000 metres finals, and for Zatopek and Gaston Reiff it was only another act in a long-running battle of wits that would reach an even more exciting climax in Helsinki four years later.
By 1952 Zatopek was no longer the raw Czech surprise he had been in 1948. He had broken world records almost at will, he had won the European 10,000 metres with ridiculous ease, and in the 5000 meters, before a disbelieving partisan crowd in Brussels, he had unleashed his famous last-lap sprint and left the local hero Reiff for dead. He was the undisputed master of distance running and yet now, at the age of thirty, he had suffered some unexpected defeats, and he was by no means undisputed favorite for Olympic gold medals — even at 10,000 metres.
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Favorite or not, Zatopek's week in Helsinki remains the supreme feat in distance running history, at the Olympic Games or anywhere else. True to reputation, if not to current form, he won the 10,000 metres by the usual and tested expedient of systematically running the legs off the opposition — by running too fast for them, by surging whenever he thought fit, and by taking a further twenty metres from them in the last lap. He won by a good 100 metres, received his medal, and prepared for the 5000 metres.
He knew that by now, despite his capacity for successive fast laps, he was not really fast enough to break up a 5000 metre field — the German Herbert Shade would be able to lead the field just as quickly as he could; Reiff would be in the field again searching for revenge; and Zatopek could not be sure that his final weapon, his 400-metre charge after the bell, would be enough to outsprint the young British runners Chris Chataway and Gordon Pirie, who had taken to the distance with such success. At the bell, Reiff had faded out of contention and Zatopek was positioned perfectly, on the shoulder of Shade who had led virtually from the gun. Zatopek launched himself into the final lap as only he knew how — he kicked, laid back his head, and charged. The crowd roared, and he was away.
Then something happened to Zatopek which, literally, had never happened to him in a major race before. At the start of the back straight in the last lap three men sped past his right shoulder — the young Chataway, Herbert Shade, who by rights should now be struggling in the wake of the Zatopek acceleration, and the French-Algerian Alain Mimoun. With 300 metres to go he had been striding away from the field; with 250 metres to go he was a mere fourth, out of the medals, his tactics exposed.
He responded almost with desperation, but with just the glimmer of a realization, as they began to lean into the final bend, that all was not well with the men in front. Chataway, in the lead, was beginning to druggie, Mimoun was closing on Shade, who was in turn inching up to the elbow of the leader. Zatopek was on them like a lion. With 180 metres to go there were four men in a line across the track, and the one on the outside, out in lane three, head rolling, arms thrashing, red vest heaving with the effort, was moving the fastest of all. Chataway, exhausted, tripped on the concrete surround and fell. Mimoun and °hade fought against the numbing fatigue into the straight and towards
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the tape. Ahead of them, his face a picture of agony mingled with power and pride, ran Zatopek, into the tape and through it — the greatest, most exciting victory of his career.
To say that after that triumph the marathon was a formality is unforgivably to devalue the marathon. Twenty-six miles and 385 yards can never be a formality, and Zatopek had never run that distance in com petition in his life.
But though he might not have known it, his preparation for the long track events had been ideal — the one-hundred-plus miles a week, the fast intervals and the long-striding would today be considered a hard but almost perfect regime for a marathon runner; in 1952 it was almost certainly a better preparation than even Jim Peters — hot favorite for the Olympic title — had undergone.
In the event Zatopek stayed with Peters and with Jansson of Sweden for the early part of the race, and then is supposed to have asked (partly, one would imagine, as a stroke of devastating gamesmanship, and partly out of a genuine desire for information) whether or not 'we ought to be going faster?' Getting no cogent answer from Peters or Jansson, who were understandably quite happy not to go any faster, Zatopek left them, accelerated away and arrived at the finish with a little over two-and-a-half minutes to spare, tiring, it is true, but tiring less then the men behind him. The ovation that greeted him as he arrived at the stadium, from a Finnish crowd for whom distance running was meat, drink and mother's milk, bore witness to the magnificence of his triumph. It would need a giant to step into his shoes....
From Sebastian COE, The Olympians,
in the chapter "The limits of endurance"
Emil Zatopek in 1948
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Coach and Pupil:
The Story of Jesse Owens
The role of the coach in any great athlete career is usually important. It often goes beyond mere training of the body: good coaches influence powerfully the build-up of the personalities of their trainees.
It has been the case for Jesse Owens, the celebrated winner of 4 gold medals in the Berlin Olympics of 1936. He was a black man and his coach a white man, in a time where segregation in America was still very much a reality. Nevertheless, a strong bond was soon established between them, to the extent that Jesse Owens himself would say that coach Riley was "a rare man, as much a father to me as Henry Owens was. "
We offer the following brief story in homage to the countless good coaches who have devoted their lives to train athletes all over the world, dedicating themselves to a selfless task which can never bring them the rewards of glory that their wards can hope for.
Jesse Owen's athletic skills first blossomed in junior high school. For there, in addition to new friends, he found a mentor for life. In the transition from adolescence to young adulthood, mentors e supremely important. Several years ago a Yale University research team studied the life cycle of "successful" middle-aged American males and concluded that every one of them had an early mentor who nourished their lively but inarticulate childhood dreams of the kind of life they wanted to live as adults. According to that study, a mentor can be a teacher, patron, adviser, or exemplar; most probably he is all those things. He helps to define and to direct youthful dreams by attentively treating the youth as a novice, an apprentice in need of both psychological support and fatherly guidance. Usually older than his protégé, the
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mentor combines the roles of surrogate parent and mature friend. He does what a father cannot do for his son because of the father's prior involvement in pre-adolescent development. He evokes in his charge feelings of admiration, respect, gratitude, and love.
Males are especially susceptible to mentors, and all the more so if the father is weak (as was Henry Owens) or tyrannical. Harry Edwards's experience in an East St. Louis ghetto school in the early 1950's — where teachers took promising young athletes under their wings, providing them with food, attention, and advice in order to keep them in school — illustrates the unique attraction of mentors for a school boy athlete. If a teacher does not lay hold on him, a coach will. When the roles of teacher and coach are combined, the influence can be altogether life-changing — for better or worse. In Jesse Owens's case, it was for the better. Ever afterward he gratefully referred to a coach and physical education teacher at Fairmount Junior High School, Charles Riley as the man who made all the difference in his life.
Jesse's various accounts of their initial encounter are muddled in contradictions. Whenever and however they first met, he found Riley physically unprepossessing. He was a gaunt, short man, about 5 feet, 8 inches tall; he had a shock of unruly grey hair, wore glasses, and was hard of hearing. But there was more to him than met the eye. He possessed a sharp Irish tongue and a wry sense of humour. Although he was precisely the same age as Jesse's own father, he seemed boundlessly enthusiastic and energetic. "I grew to admire and respect his words and his actions and everything else," the still-mesmerized Owens recalled thirty years later. "I wanted to be like him because he was a wonderful person, well-liked by everybody, no problems with anybody, and he preferred working over there with those Negro kids rather than going into another area that was perhaps a white area."
Riley was white. A native Pennsylvanian, he grew up in little Much Chunk working in a slate mine and ribbon mill.... If Jesse Owens found in Riley an attentive father figure, Riley in turn found a surrogate athletic son, the difference in colour notwithstanding.
He certainly latched onto the young Owens, recognizing his natural athletic talent as a rough gem worth polishing. Thinking Jesse under nourished, he often brought him breakfast. Frequently on Sunday afternoons he drove from his home in West Cleveland in his old Model T Ford to take his young pupil home with him for lunch. Riley's daughter
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still remembers those scenes, with Jesse "just a part of the family" but having to be taught proper table manners. He some times addressed Riley as "Coach", more frequently he called him "Pop." In fact, the relationship was warm and respectful, not intimate. Riley "never played with me, never kidded me," Jesse recalled, but to the end of his life he lauded his white "Pop" as "a rare man, as much a father to me as Henry Owens was."
Their relationship hinged on Jesse's athletic promise. Riley challenged him "to do more than we do in our gym class" in order to develop his natural speed. Upon hearing that he had to work after school, Riley agreed to meet him each morning for track practice an hour before school. By the eighth grade he had Jesse competing in junior high meets, but with out much success at first. Jesse tended to give up when he was behind down the stretch, provoking a gentle but firm tongue-lashing from his mentor. More often, though, Riley taught by asking questions or by telling simple little parables with obvious points. Once, after Jesse lost a race because he grimaced and strained rather than running
relaxed, Riley took him to a race track east of Cleveland to watch the horses run. He quietly instructed Jesse to observe how the better horses never changed expression of face: the determination was on the inside, not the outside.
Riley's investment soon began to pay dividends. About a year after he began his paternalistic training of Jesse, he timed him in the 100 yard dash at 11 seconds. Astounded, he couldn't believe his stopwatch, so he found another one, only to clock Jesse once again at 11 seconds!
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Then in 1928 Owens set his first two of innumerable records: 6 feet in the high jump, and 22 feet, 11 3/4 inches in the long jump. Both were new world marks for junior high school athletes. Yet quick results were not Riley's main concern. His motto, "Train for four years from next Friday," meant patient work for the sake of long-range goals. "Where do I go from here?" the young Owens once asked after slipping back from a prior level of performance.
"Keep training," Riley replied.
"For what?"
"Why, for four years from Friday, of course."
In his quest for the perfect technique and consistency of performance, Riley taught Jesse to run as if he were dancing on hot coals, "like the ground was a burning fire" that he should touch as lightly as possible. He demanded concentration and classic simplicity of form. "All good runners look alike. They have to follow the same principles," Owens observed years later. "We all ran the same way at my junior high school, because that was the way our coach taught us to run. You could watch 500 kids from Cleveland, Ohio, run, and you could pick out the ones who'd been trained by Coach Riley. They ran with their heads held firm and straight; they didn't look around." The smooth, fluid style of Jesse Owens that still captivates the viewer of Leni Riefenstahl's Olympia can largely be traced to the tutelage of Charles Riley.
So, to some degree, can Owens's social vision. His inability ever to view the world in simple racial terms — black versus white — flowed out of his relation to his white mentor. "He was the first white man I really knew," Owens said, "and without ever trying, he proved to me beyond all proof that a white man can understand — and love — a Negro." They never discussed racial issues, but on those Sunday afternoons at Riley's home after lunch they did talk about values, manners, and dreams. "He trained me to become a man as well as an athlete," Jesse recalled. By his own account, his Irish "father" kept him off the ghetto trash heap. "Coach Riley taught me to behave. His influence on me and many other boys kept us out of trouble. Without his guidance, we could very easily have become wards of the state."
Riley introduced Jesse to yet another white exemplar, the world renowned track star Charley Paddock. Virtually unbeatable as a varsity sprinter at the University of Southern California in the early 1920s,
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Paddock at one time held every important sprint record. At the Antwerp Olympics in 1920, he won the gold medal in the 100-meter dash; from Paris four years later he came away with a silver medal. In that early age of journalistic hype, he was one of the first runners to be dubbed "the world's fastest human."...
In 1928 Riley arranged for him to address the youngsters at Fairmount Junior High. After his speech. Paddock was led to Riley's office to sign autographs, and there Riley personally introduced him to the fifteen-year-old Owens. After the crowd cleared from the office Riley, Paddock, and Owens stood talking. As the two older men dominated the conversation, little did the awestruck Owens know how altogether different he and the accomplished Paddock were as runners. Jesse's style was already smooth as silk; Paddock's was the unorthodox driving thrust of a heavily muscled torso, high knee action, a widely flailing arm motion, and a final frantic leap to break the tape. His form was no model to imitate. Yet he was a winner, an Olympic champion, and on that point alone he bowled the impressionable young Owens off his feet. Shortly after Paddock left Fairmount for his next speaking engagement, a wide-eyed Jesse told Riley that he wanted to be "like Charley Paddock," a champion. Riley assured him that he could, if he worked hard enough for that goal. To his dying day, Owens recalled his boyhood "idol," Charley Paddock, as a man who first made him aware of the Olympic Games and inspired him to set his sights high.
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The Greek hero Heracles slaying the Nemean lion
Man, and particularly modern man, is the weakest of the large animals. If he has come to dominate the terrestrial creation it is by the power of his mind rather than the strength of his frame. And yet, at the beginning of his long journey on Earth, sheer physical strength was an essential condition of his survival; prehistoric humans ran long distances in search of fire or food and were able to kill animals much larger than themselves. Only the strong tended to survive.
As societies developed and men's activities diversified, strength became the goal of specialized members of society such as the manual labourer, the fighter or the athlete. In the modern world where automation has replaced the labourer and sophisticated weaponry the foot soldier, physical strength is no longer a necessity for survival. Yet the desire for strength has not abated in man and sports offers now the main arena where the wondrous capacities of the body can be expressed.
Of course, the stadium or the boxing ring are only for the few. But the many, though no longer in need of strength of body, are perhaps secretly longing for it: the growing popularity of sports like weight lifting, boxing, wrestling, body-building, bears witness to the attraction still exerted by strength.
The main attributes that one should develop in regard to one's body are: health, strength, endurance, speed, lightness, grace and beauty. All these attributes are, in a sense, interdependent, but strength occupies a special place. Without strength, the health of the body can easily deteriorate; the real basis of endurance is strength; strength is the fundamental
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Bhima ready to lift his family on his shoulders (Jatugriha Daha: Nandalal Bose). This refers to an episode of the Mahabharata when the Pandavas escape from "the house of lac" which has been set on fire. Bhima is shown here as carrying his mother Kunti. (Courtesy: NGMA, New Delhi)
force behind speed; it is only the strong who can feel the lightness of the body without weakness; strength combined with grace and beauty bestows perfection. It gave rise to powerful myths like Heracles and Bhima. The image of Bhima carrying his mother and four brothers through the forest strikes us as an archetype of strength. If man is in awe of the feats of Bhima, he also aspires to emulate him; for it was discovered long ago that the body is not just a piece of matter more or less endowed with strength, it is perfectible. Already in ancient India, a regular training system was devised using specific methods to bring about sizeable changes in body strength and power. "Professional wrestlers built up their bodies and developed their strength like demons!" says an ancient Indian text. Wrestlers ran long distances and swam long distances, carried around heavy weights, tried to restrain young bulls. They wielded wooden or iron clubs of varying weight to exercise arms and shoulders. Later they would use stone cubes or stone wheels fitted with a handle to grip. They would repeatedly
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lift sand bags with either hands or legs long before barbells were invented.
The ancient Greeks also put a great emphasis on the body. They worshipped Health, Beauty and Strength. Mythical heroes of fabulous strength like Atlas or Heracles were emulated in real life by characters almost as formidable. Milo of Crotona, a wrestler who lived around 500 B.C., was said to have developed his strength by carrying a calf every day of its life until it was a full grown bull? (He thus may be the real inventor of the modern notion of "progressive resistance training "). People loved him for his tricks: he would hold a pomegranate so fast in his fist that no one could get it from him, and yet the fruit would remain unharmed. Or he would stand on an oiled quoit and resist all efforts to dislodge him. His strength went along with an enormous appetite — he could eat a four-year heifer in one day!
Today we still feel the fascination with strength that the watchers of Milo experienced, but widespread information and numerous training facilities have made of strength a goal accessible to all. Modern knowledge about the body has helped perfect the training methods devised by early man in his quest for strength, but whereas in the olden times only
A view of an Indian akhada or wrestling school
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wrestlers and fighters would train their muscles systematically, today many athletes, tennis players, sprinters, football players, jumpers, etc., use the principles of weight training to achieve better results in their own disciplines.
Man's constant striving for strength has led to a seemingly endless progress. The human body is stronger than ever before, lifts more weight, throws more weight farther than ever before and keeps breaking its own records. The perennial desire for strength touches chords in every human being. In thousands of stories and films the hero is strong. With his strength he courageously serves justice and truth and defeats evil ways. Such a strength is highly desirable. In today's world, we can see humanity changing its old views on the body: it is no longer an awkward appendage to the spirit or an unconscious cloak to be left to doctors when it is malfunctioning — it is an integral part of the human person and like our habits or our character can be worked upon and changed.
Body-building at the
Sri Aurobindo Ashram, 1958
The example of a great champion is always inspiring and the following excerpts from the autobiography of the man who brought body building widespread recognition will help the reader understand the psychology and dedication that allow the weak to become strong and the strong to become even stronger.
Of course, we are aware that body-building is a controversial activity as it can become an excessive preoccupation leading to excesses which contribute to the mixed reputation it enjoys. Examples of monstrous build-up of muscles which can be seen in some specialised magazines may lead quite a few to a wholesale rejection of this sport. We nevertheless felt that Arnold Schwarzenneger is an authentic sportsman and champion and that the remarkable capacity for discipline and control which he has been able to develop is worth admiring. It is why we are presenting these excerpts from Arnold: The Education of a Body-Builder.
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Hanuman, carrying on his shoulders Lord Rama and his brother Lakshman. Hanuman is the patron god of the Indian wrestlers.
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Arnold Schwarzenegger
Arnold Schwarzenegger was born in Austria in 1948. He started body building at the age of 15 and by the age of 19 had won several power lifting contests as well as the Mr. Europe (Junior) and the Mr. Europe bodybuilding contests. In 1968 he became a resident of the United States and went on to win all the major titles of bodybuilding championships: Mr. World, Mr. Universe (five times) and Mr. Olympia, the most prestigious title of all, which he won six times in a row and once more five years later when he made a comeback to bodybuilding on the occasion of a documentary film.
His charisma was a great factor in attracting public attention to bodybuilding, a sport that had been generally looked down upon. He is at present a film actor and director.
"Arnold! Arnold"
I can still hear them, the voices of my friends the lifeguards, body builders, the weight lifters, booming up from the lake where they were working out in the grass and trees.
"Arnold — come on.'" cried Karl, the young doctor who had become my friend at the gym...
It was the summer I turned fifteen, a magical season for me because that year I'd discovered exactly what I wanted to do with my life. It was more than a young boy's mere pipe dream of a distant, hazy future — confused fantasies of being a fireman, detective, sailor, test pilot, or spy. I knew I was going to be a bodybuilder. It wasn't simply that either. I would be the best bodybuilder in the world, the greatest, the best-built man.
I still remember that first visit to the bodybuilding gym. I had never seen anyone lifting weights before. Those guys were huge and brutal. I found myself walking around them, staring at muscles I couldn't even name, muscles I'd never even seen before. The weight lifters shone
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with sweat; they were powerful looking. Herculean. And there it was before me — my life, the answer I'd been seeking. It clicked. It was something I suddenly just seemed to reach out and find, as if I'd been crossing a suspended bridge and finally stepped off onto solid ground.
I remember the first real workout I had as vividly as if it were last night. I rode my bike to the gym, which was eight miles from the village where I lived. I used barbells,' dumbbells2 and machines.3 The guys warned me that I'd get sore, but it didn't seem to be having any effect. I thought I must be beyond that. Then, after the workout,41 start ed riding home and fell off my bike. I was so weak I couldn't make my hands hold on. I had no feeling in my legs: they were noodles. I was numb, my whole body buzzing. I pushed the bike for a while, leaning on it. Half a mile farther, I tried to ride it again, fell off again, and then just pushed it the rest of the way home. This was my first experience with weight training, and I was crazy for it.
The next morning I couldn't even lift my arm to comb my hair. Each time I tried, pain shot through every muscle in my shoulder and arm. I couldn't hold the comb. I tried to drink coffee and spilled it all over the table. I was helpless.
It was the first time I'd ever felt every one of my muscles. It was the first time those sensations had registered in my mind, the first time my mind knew my thighs, calves and forearms were more than just limbs. I felt the muscles in my triceps aching, and I knew why they were called triceps — because there are three muscles in there. They were all registered in my mind, written there with sharp little jabs of pain. I learned that this pain meant progress. Each time my muscles were sore from a workout, I knew they were growing.
I wanted to be a big guy. I didn't want to be delicate. I dreamed of big deltoids, big pecs,5 big thighs, big calves; I wanted every muscle to explode and be huge. I dreamed about being gigantic.
My dreams went beyond a spectacular body. Once I had that, I knew what it would do for me. I'd get into the movies and build gymnasiums all over the world. I'd create an empire.
Whereas most people were satisfied to train two or three times a week, I quickly escalated my program to six workouts a week.
My father was baffled by my eagerness. "Don't do it, Arnold," he said. "You'll overtrain, you'll overwork yourself."
"I'm all right," I said. "I'm doing it gradually."
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"Yes," he said. "But what will you do with all these muscles once you've got them?"
"I want to be the best-built man in the world," I said frankly.
That made him sigh and shake his head.
"Then I want to go to America and be in movies. I want to be an actor."
"America?"
"Yes — America."
"My god!" he cried. He went into the kitchen and told my mother, "I think we better go to the doctor with this one, he's sick in the head."
He was genuinely worried about me. He felt I wasn't normal. And of course he was right. With my desire and my drive, I definitely was not normal. Normal people can be happy with a regular life. I was different. I felt there was more to life than just plodding through an average existence. I'd always been impressed by stories of greatness and power. Caesar, Charlemagne, Napoleon were names I knew and remembered. I wanted to do something special, to be recognized as the best. I saw bodybuilding as the vehicle that would take me to the top, and I put all my energy into it.
I'm convinced most of the people I knew didn't really understand what I was doing at all. They looked at me as a novelty, a freak. My actual acceptance was limited. There were certain social groups in which the people were intimidated by bodybuilding and felt they should talk down to me. They tried to point out weaknesses in the sport and argued why a person shouldn't do it. I've been through these trips all my life. There's a certain kind of person who always says, "My doctor tells me lifting weights is bad for your health...." In the beginning, it was kind of hard for me to handle. I was young and impressionable. I knew I wanted to do it so badly nobody could stop me, least of all people I wouldn't even bother to count as friends, but many times I did question it. I wondered why I was so different, why I wanted to do something a lot of people didn't like and -even made fun of. If you played soccer, everybody loved you; you were a hero. And they gave you anything,
People recognized my athletic talents; but my choice of a sport confused them. They shook their heads. "Why did you have to pick the least-favorite sport in Austria?" they always asked. It was true. We had only twenty or thirty bodybuilders in the entire country.
I couldn't come up with an answer. I didn't know. It had been
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instinctive. I had just fallen in love with it. I loved the feeling of the gym, of working out, of having muscles all over. My mind was into looking huge, into being awesome and powerful. I saw it working. My muscles began bursting out all over. And I knew I was on my way.
Now, looking back, I can analyze it more clearly. My total involvement had a lot to do with the discipline, the individualism, and the utter integrity of bodybuilding. But at the time it was a mystery even to me. Bodybuilding did have its rewards, but they were relatively small. I wasn't competing yet, so my gratification had to come from other areas. In the summer at the lake I could surprise everyone by showing up with a different body. They'd say, "Jesus, Arnold, you grew again. When are you going to stop?"
"Never," I'd tell them. We'd all laugh. They thought it amusing. But I meant it.
I couldn't be bothered with girls as companions. My mind was totally locked into working out, and I was annoyed if anything took me away from it. I wouldn't afford to have my feelings hurt during heavy training or just before a competition. I needed stable emotions, total discipline. I needed to be there training for two hours in the morning and two hours at night, concentrating on nothing except perfecting my body and bringing it to its peak. Whatever I thought might hold me back, I avoided.
Besides, if I did miss out on the emotional thing because I was so dedicated, I believe I benefited in other ways that finally brought every thing into balance. One of these was my self-confidence, which grew as I saw how much control I was gaining over my body. In two or three years I had actually been able to change my body entirely. That told me something. If I had been able to change my body that much, I could also, through the same discipline and determination, change anything else I wanted. I could change my habits, my whole outlook on life.
The secret is contained in a three-part formula I learned in the gym: self-confidence, a positive mental attitude, and honest hard work. Many people are aware of these principles, but very few can put them into practice. Every day I hear someone say, "I'm too fat. I need to lose twenty-five pounds, but I can't. I never seem to improve." I'd hate myself if I had that kind of attitude, if I were that weak. I can lose ten to forty pounds rapidly, easily, painlessly, by simply setting my mind to it. By observing the principles of strict discipline that bodybuilding taught
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me, I can prepare myself for anything. I have developed such absolute control over my body that I can decide what body weight I want for any particular time and take myself up or down to meet it.
Two months before we started shooting Stay Hungry, Bob Rafaelson came to me and said, "I'm afraid of hiring you for this film, Arnold. You're just too big. You weigh two forty, and if you're in a scene with Sally Fields you'll dwarf her. I'd like you to be much leaner and more normal-looking in street clothes." I said, "You worry about your film and I'll worry about my body. Just tell me what day you want me to show up and at what body weight, and I'll do it." He thought I was pulling his leg. He wanted me to be down to 210 pounds, but he didn't think I could ever do it. So I bet him I could. The day the filming began, Rafaelson went with me to the gym to work out and take a sauna. "Step on the scale," he said. I weighed 209 pounds. One pound less than he wanted me. He couldn't believe it. I kept the weight for three months, until the shooting stopped. Then I got an offer to do the film Pumping Iron. The only way I could do it was to compete in the Mr. Olympia contest. Within two more months I would have to go back up to 240 pounds, the weight at which I felt I reached the ultimate in size and symmetry, and then cut down to 235 for maximum definition. I did it easily and won the Mr. Olympia contest.
From the very beginning I knew bodybuilding was the perfect choice for my career. No one else seemed to agree — at least not my family or teachers. To them the only acceptable way of life was being a banker, secretary, doctor, or salesman — being established in the ordinary way, taking the regular kind of job offered through an employment agency — something legitimate. My desire to build my body and be Mr. Universe was totally beyond their comprehension. Because of it, I was put through a lot of changes. I locked up my emotions even further and listened only to my inner voice, my instincts.
I went into the Army in 1965. One year of service was obligatory in Austria. After that, I could make my decision about a future. For me the Army was a good experience. I liked the regimentation, the firm, rigid structure. The whole idea of uniforms and medals appealed to me. Discipline was not a new thing to me — you can't do bodybuilding successfully without it.
Shortly after I was inducted, I received an invitation to the junior division of the Mr. Europe contest in Stuttgart, Germany. I was in the
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middle of basic training and unless someone in your immediate family died, you were absolutely forbidden to leave. I spent a couple of sleep less nights wondering what I should do. Finally I knew there was no alternative: I was going to sneak out and go.
The junior Mr. Europe contest meant so much to me that I didn't care what consequences I'd have to suffer. I crawled over the wall, taking only the clothes I was wearing. I had barely enough money to buy a third-class train ticket.
This was my first contest. I was nervous and exhausted from the train trip and I had no idea what was going on. I tried to learn some thing by watching the short men's class, but they seemed as amateurish and confused as I was. I had to borrow someone else's posing trunks, someone else's body oil. I had rehearsed a posing routine in my mind on the train.
But the instant I stepped out before the judges my mind went blank. Somehow I made it through the initial posing. Then they called me back for a pose-off. Again, my mind was blank and I wasn't sure how I'd done. Finally, the announcement came that I'd won — Arnold Schwarzenegger, Mr. Europe Junior.
At first the Army was not impressed. I borrowed money to travel back to the base and they caught me as I was climbing over the wall. I sat in jail for seven days with only a blanket on a cold stone bench and almost no food. But I had my trophy and I didn't care if they locked me up for a whole year; it had been worth it.
I showed my trophy to everybody. And by the time I got out of jail, word had spread through the camp that I had won Mr. Europe Junior. The top majors decided it lent some prestige to the Army and gave me two days' leave. I became a hero because of what I'd gone through to win. When we were out in the field the drill instructors mentioned it. "You have to fight for your fatherland," they said. "You have to have courage. Look at what Schwarzenegger did just to win this title." I became a hero, even though I had defied their rules to get what I wanted. That one time, they made an exception. An order came down from the top that I was to train, to build my body. It was the nicest order I could have had.
A weight-lifting gym was set up and I was ordered to go there every day after lunch. I'd brought my own dumbbells and some of the machines from home because the Army had only barbells and weights. They were strict about my training. Every time an officer walked by the
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window and caught me sitting down, he'd threaten to have me put in jail.
I paced myself and used this opportunity to continue building the foundation I'd begun three years before. I devised a way of training six hours at a stretch without getting totally wiped out. I ate four or five times a day...
Many people regret having to serve in the Army. But it was not a waste of time for me. When I came out I weighed 225 pounds. I'd gone from 200 to 225 pounds. Up to that time, this was the biggest change I'd ever made in a single year.
After I won the Mr. Europe Junior contest, I asked myself over and over, "What can you do to be special and different?"
I finally arrived at the idea of shocking the muscles. So once a week I took a training partner and drove out into the country with the weights.
It's important that you like what you do, and we loved it. We had fun, but we also did astonishing workouts. We did tortuous workouts in the fresh air. We challenged each other. We experienced a lot of pain. We'd be in the middle of a squat6 and just cramp up. We'd roll on the ground and try to massage it out. That was the first time I knew pain could become pleasure. We were benefiting from pain. We were breaking through the pain barrier and shocking the muscle. We looked at this pain as a positive thing, because we grew.
It was a fantastic feeling to gain size from pain. All of a sudden I was looking forward to it as something pleasurable. The whole idea of pain became a pleasure trip. I couldn't tell anybody about it then, because I knew they would say I was a
weirdo, a masochist. Which wasn't true, I had just converted the pain into pleasure — not for its own sake but because it meant growing.
Every year, in the spring, a stone-lifting contest is held in Munich. This has been going on for decades and has a lot of prestige in sporting circles. You stand on two footrests that look like chairs and pull the stone up between your legs by a metal handle. The stone weighs
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approximately 508 German pounds (about 560 English pounds). An electric scale on the wall of the auditorium shows how many centimetres you lift the stone. You do it cold; there's no warming up. You just lift it up as far as you can. That year I entered the contest, broke the existing record, and won. The press picked it up and wrote that Mr. Universe was the strongest man in Germany — which may or may not have been true, but it was good for bodybuilding. At that time, along with all the other misconceptions about the sport, people still thought bodybuilders had muscles but didn't have any power, just big useless muscles.
I became, in due time, exactly what I had set out to be: a bodybuilding champion, able to bring myself to a contest in the best possible shape — massive, yet cut and defined. I could do it on purpose, over and over if need be. I was the master of my physical structure. I was in control. One word was constantly on my mind: perfection.
I knew the secret: Concentrate while you're training. Do not allow other thoughts to enter your mind.
The point is, I was learning more and more about the mind, about the power it has over the body. It meant having complete communication with the muscles, always feeling what was happening to my muscles the day after a workout. The most important thing is that my mind was always in touch with my body; I felt my muscles continuously; I always took an inventory before working out. I flexed my muscles and got in touch. That not only helped me train; it was like meditating. I locked my mind into my muscle during training, as if I'd transplanted my mind into the tissue itself. By just thinking about it, I could actually send blood into a muscle.
It became part of my routine that year to start out every day with total concentration. The way I did it was to play out exactly what I was going to use, how I was going to pull my muscles, and how I would feel it. I programmed myself. I saw myself doing it; I imagined how I would feel it, I was thoroughly, totally into it mentally. I did not waver at all.
When I went to the gym I got rid of every alien thought in my mind. I tuned in to my body as though it were a musical instrument I was about to play. In the dressing room I would start thinking about training, about every body part, what I was going to do, how I was going to pump up. I would concentrate on procedure and results until my every day problems went floating away.
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I believe you overcome a lot of frustrations in the gymnasium, things you're not even aware of. I found that the more I worked out, the less violent I became. It trimmed away tensions and taught me how to relax: when I put in a good workout I felt a sense of accomplishment. I felt like a newborn person. I had the strength to go on and conquer in other areas and feel confident about doing it. It left me in kind of a low-key frame of mind, not always desperate or anxious. Every day, I see people running around, all excited, wanting to do things, feeling pent up and unable to find any release. I'd probably be that way if I didn't work off my frustrations in the gym. I've come to realize that almost anything difficult, any challenge, takes time, patience and hard work, like building up for a 300-pound bench press.7 Learning that gave me plenty of positive energy to use later on.
I taught myself discipline, the strictest kind of discipline. How to be totally in control of my body, how to control each individual muscle. I could apply that discipline to everyday life. I used it in acting, in going to school. Whenever I didn't want to study I would just think back and remember what it took to be Mr. Universe — the sacrifice, the hard work — and I would plunge myself into studying.
Not the least reward of a fit body is continuous good health. As a very small child I was constantly sick. Even later on I spent a part of every year in bed with a heavy cold. Since I began bodybuilding, in the last fourteen years, I have only been sick two or three times, and then it was only a minor cold. I have developed a perfect communication between my body and my mind; I have total control over my body. My body responds better; I fight off things easier. My body has become like a clock, a special clock that is tuned so well it only goes wrong one second in five years. That's how I feel about my body. It is so perfect that everything works. And I very rarely see other bodybuilders getting sick. There are fewer heart attacks among bodybuilders because blood is being pumped through the veins so hard it keeps the veins open; and when you pump up the muscles it pumps blood through them and trains the heart every time you train. My own circulation is fantastic.
For me, the meaning of life is not simply to exist, to survive, but to move ahead, to go up, to achieve, to conquer.
__________________________________________________________
From Arnold Schwarzenegger, Arnold : The Education of a Body Builder,
Warner Books, a division of Little, Brown and Co.
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Body-Building glossary
Barbells — a rod of one meter to which disks of varying weights are attached at each end and lifted with two hands.
Dumbbells — two metal balls connected by a rigid handle long enough for the grip of one hand.
Machines — exercising machines with weights on cables and pulleys, making it possible to use weight resistance in all directions.
Workout — exercise
Pecs — pectorals, the muscles of the chest.
Squat — to sit on the heels with the knees bent.
Bench Press — a lift of weights (barbells or dumbbells) until the arms are extended; while lying on a bench, the action of lifting weight above the chest until the arms are extended.
Note on Body-Building
A remarkable feature of the body — contrary to the over-used comparison — is that it is not a machine. If you connect a 10 horse power motor to a 12 horse power load, it will burn out. But if you demand a 12 horse power effort from a 10 horse power body, it becomes a 12 horse power body.
If you keep trying to work against heavier and heavier amounts of resistance, the body adapts by causing the muscles to become larger and stronger. This principle of "progressive resistance weight training" is the basis of body building.
The bodybuilder attempts to achieve total development of every muscle in the body, to create the fullest possible shape in each muscle, to have the muscles proportionate to one another, and to achieve an overall symmetry that is as aesthetically pleasing as possible.
Competitive bodybuilders use bodybuilding techniques to develop their physiques to a degree human beings have never been able to achieve before, and then compete with one another on stage to determine who has reached the highest level of development.
Bodybuilders are virtually unique in the demands they place upon their bodies. They require simultaneously maximum muscle mass and minimum
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body fat, which is an extremely difficult state to attain. Therefore, the basic principles of nutrition are as valuable to a bodybuilder as the basic principles of training.
Although most bodybuilders who are engaged in competition eat meat there are a few notable exceptions who are vegetarians. Here is a sample menu (non-vegetarian) designed to gain weight:
4 eggs
8 ounces milk
2 slices whole-grain bread with butter
1 piece fresh fruit
1/2 pound meat, fish, fowl, or cheese
2 slices whole-grain bread with butter or mayonnaise
16 ounces milk
1 pound meat, fish, fowl, or cheese
Baked potato, or beans
lightly steamed fresh vegetable
large raw salad
»All this supplemented by high-protein, high-calorie drinks:
Blend together 16 ounces milk, 8 ounces whipping cream, 6 raw eggs, 6 teaspoons of lecithin, and 3/4 cup of milk-and-egg protein. Drink three times a day!
Muscles
There are about 656 muscles in the body and they represent as much as 42% of a man's weight and about 36% of a woman's. There is the cardiac muscle found only in the heart. There is smooth muscle which lines most hollow organs (like the stomach and intestines) and whose movements are involuntary. And there is skeletal muscle, under conscious control, that makes all of our movements possible.
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Skeletal muscle is made up of fibres whose diameter ranges from one tenth to one hundredth of a millimetre. The number of fibres in any given muscle is fixed at birth but exercise, especially weightlifting, will make them larger and thus stronger.
In each muscle are found two types of fibres in proportions that vary according to function. Fast-twitch fibres provide strength and power but are quick to exhaust. Slow-twitch fibres provide sturdy strength and endurance. Thanks to these two kinds of fibres man can suddenly lift a heavy weight or run a marathon.
Each muscle is served by nerves, linking muscle to the brain and spinal cord. A network of nerve circuits carries signals that direct the ebb and flow of muscular energy. Many muscles must work together to perform even the simplest task. Every muscle has a particular function, but each works in a fluent synchrony with others to achieve its role.
The basic building block for all voluntary movements is the motor unit: a single neuron (nerve cell) and all the muscle 'fibres it supplies. Muscles that require precise and fast control, such as the muscles of the eyes, have many small motor units of only a few muscle fibres. Slow moving large muscles, such as the calf muscles, have motor units of a thousand or more fibres.
Muscles move, and by their motion we move. Yet despite the variety of actions we are capable of performing, muscle itself moves in only one way: by becoming shorter. Muscle pulls but it cannot push. However much a man may be pushing upon a wall, every single muscle doing work is doing it by pulling; the body's engineering sees to it that the pulling becomes pushing.
Muscles of the back
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Cassius Clay was born in 1942, of a poor black Christian family in Louisville, Kentucky. He was an aimless adolescent roaming the streets with friends when he discovered boxing, one of the only sports open to a black athlete in America at that time of strict segregation.
Young Cassius took to boxing and eventually rose to fame. In 1964 he converted to Islam and changed his name to Muhammad Ali.
He tells us here how he got into boxing in the first place.
I was twelve years old, and me and Johnny Willis, my closest buddy, had been out riding around on our bikes, when Johnny suddenly remembered the Louisville Home Show, at the Columbia Gym.
At first I didn't want to go to the Home Show very much, but when we read the leaflet we saw that there would be free popcorn and free candy. Besides, my father had bought me a new bike for Christmas, and I wanted to show it off.
At the show we hung around eating until seven o'clock, when everybody was leaving.
Rain was coming down heavy when we left, so it took a while for us to notice that my bicycle was gone. Angry and frightened of what my father would do, we ran up and down the streets, asking about the bike. Someone-told us to go downstairs to the Columbia Gym. There's a policeman, Joe Martin, down there in the recreation centre. Go and see him.'
I ran downstairs, crying but the sights and sounds and the smell of the boxing gym excited me so much that I almost forgot about the bike.
There were about ten boxers in the gym, some hitting the speed bag, some in the ring, sparring, some jumping rope. I stood there, smelling
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the sweat and rubbing alcohol, and a feeling of awe came over me. One slim boy shadowboxing in the ring was throwing punches almost too fast for my eyes to follow.
'You'll have to give me a report,' Martin said calmly, and wrote down what I told him. Then, as I was about to go, he tapped me on the shoulder. 'By the way, we got boxing every night, Monday through Friday, from six to eight. Here's an application in case you want to join the gym.'
I was about 112 pounds, skinny, and I'd never had on a pair of boxing gloves. I folded up the paper and stuck it in my pocket, thinking it was a poor thing to take home instead of a bike....
Next Saturday I was home looking at a TV show called Tomorrow's Champions, an amateur boxing show, and there was the face of Joe Martin, working in the comer with one of his boys.
I nudged my mother 'That's the man-1 told about the bicycle. He wants me to come and box. Where's that application?'
'You want to be a boxer?' She was serious.
'I want to be a boxer,' I said.
'How you going to get down there?'
'Oh, I'll borrow somebody's bike,' I said. 'And I don't have nothing else to do.'
When I got to the gym, I was so eager I jumped into the ring with some older boxer and began throwing wild punches. In a minute my nose started bleeding. My mouth was hurt. My head was dizzy. Finally someone pulled me out of the ring.. At that moment I was thinking I would be better off in the streets, but a slim welterweight came up and put his arms around my shoulders, saying, 'You'll be all right. Just don't box these older fellows first. Box the fellows who are new like you. Get someone to teach you how to do it.'
But there was hardly anybody to teach me anything. Martin knew a little. He could show me how to place my feet and how to throw a right cross, but he knew very little else. I was fighting like a girl, throwing wild, loopy punches. But something was driving me and I kept fighting and I kept training. And although I still roamed the streets with the gang, I kept coming back to the gym..
'I like what you're doing.' Martin said to me one day. 'I like the way you stick to it. I'm going to put you on television. You'll be on the
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next television fight.'
Thrilled at the idea of being seen on TV all over Kentucky, I trained the whole week. They matched me with a white fighter, Ronny O'Keefe, and I won my first fight by a split decision.
All of a sudden I had a new life. Inside the gang, I was getting recognition as a fighter. My father walked up and down Boston Street after my first victory, predicting, 'My son is going to be another Joe Louis. The World Heavyweight Champion, Cassius Clay.'
After school I would go to work four hours for the Catholic sisters, then train at Martin's gym from six to eight in the evening. From there I would go to get the real training at Stoner's gym from eight to twelve at night.
The discipline in Fred's gym was tough. Fred was relentless in making me develop certain muscles which he believed were necessary for survival in the ring. He made us shoot left jabs, two hundred straight, sharp left jabs at a time without stopping. If we got tired, he made us start all over and count to a hundred, one, two, three... shooting jabs until we could do the two hundred without feeling it. Then he made us shoot and jab and a right cross. Then come back with a hook, jab, left hook and duck; a jab and back up, a jab and move forward. He taught us to block, to shoot right crosses, and we went over it again and again. We did a hundred push-ups and a hundred knee bends.
I am 14 years old now; one rainy day I am driving my motor scooter, head down, zipping past parked cars until I pass one with its radio up loud and hear a roaring crowd. I put on the brakes, skid around and come back to hear more. A heavyweight boxing match is taking place. The car is too crowded for me to get in, but they let me put my head inside so I can hear. I have gotten there just in time to hear the announcer crying out above the noise, 'And still the Heavyweight Champion of the World, Rocky Marciano!'
A cold chill shoots through my bones. I have never heard anything that affected me like those words: 'Heavyweight Champion of the World.' All the world? And from that day on I want to hear that said about me.
I start dreaming: I can see myself telling my next door neighbour, 'I'm getting ready to fight for the Heavyweight Title of the World!' And coming back the next night to say, 'I'm now the Heavyweight Champion of the World!' The rain is cold and pouring down harder,
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Cassius Clay vs. Archie Moore
and I ask myself, 'Can I?' At this time I can't even beat everybody in my own gym. I ask Joe Martin. He shakes his head doubtfully. 'You hardly weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet. You know how big a heavyweight is? Maybe you could be a lightweight.'
But I want 'heavyweight'. Somehow, although no one on either side of my family is that big, I feel I will be. I turn from him, and the next day I start training in earnest.
Soon I develop a built-in radar. I know how far I can go back, when it's time to duck or time to tie my man up. I learn there is a science to making your opponent wear down. I learn to put my head within hitting range, force my opponent to throw blows, then lean back and away, keeping eyes wide open so I can see everything, then side-step, move to the right, or to the left, jab him again, then again, put my head back in hitting range. It takes a lot out of a fighter to throw punches that land in the thin air. When his best combinations hit nothing but space, it saps him.
Throughout my amateur days, old boxers think I'm easy to hit, but I'm not. I concentrate on defense. I concentrate on timing and motions
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and pulling back. When I throw a jab, I know my opponent will throw a punch, and I pull back.
Cassius Clay (Muhammad Ali) will go on to capture the "Golden Gloves" championship in 1959, a gold medal in the 1960 Olympics and became in 1964 "Heavyweight Champion of the World". He will retain the title until 1967 when he gets barred from boxing because of his controversial position on the Vietnam war.
He will go back to boxing in 1971 when he suffers his first defeat as a professional at the hand of Joe Frazier. In 1973, in another attempt at world championship, he will lose for the second time in his life to Ken Norton.
In 1974, despite gloomy predictions, he will try again to capture the world title by challenging the then champion George Foreman.
He tells us here of his training in view of this fight.
Now, for this fight, I'm following my old plan of training. I sacrifice for my diet, watch my weight, run till I almost pass out. And then there's the sexual discipline. I've learned if a fighter works three or four weeks, say, without his wife, it's better for him. If a fighter can go six weeks, he'll pass through certain stages of conditioning. For the first week, it's tough. But if he can keep it up, he starts getting stronger and in better shape. His timing, his eyesight, his rhythm, everything starts coming in. He's steady getting strength. He gets three or four winds and he runs longer. I believe the more time he spends without sex and keeps living right and training, the better shape he's in.
How long does it take to prepare? Most Heavyweight Champions in the past have gone into training four to six months before a fight: some have prepared for a year. George started training four months before Zaire, but I'll only need about two months because I stay active, fighting every two or three months. I never really allow myself to get out of shape. Even when I'm at home, if I go to the grocery store or if I have a mile trip I walk it or run it. I eat the right foods. .1 don't drink, I don't smoke. I don't eat greasy foods, and since I'm a Muslim I don't eat pork, ham or bacon. I believe my diet makes me faster — and even my worst critics will admit that I am the fastest heavyweight in the history of boxing.
But I've been off four months since my second fight with Frazier,
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and I've picked up a little weight. I've been eating banana pudding and homemade ice cream, constantly nibbling on cookies and cakes, drinking all kinds of soda. Now I have to be extra conscious of my weight. I have to get the sugar out of my blood. All sugar is outlawed. I eat fresh vegetables, good lamb, veal, squab, fish, good kosher chicken, I drink nothing but distilled water and fruit juices. In the morning I have poached eggs, wheat toast and grapefruit or orange juice. I prefer unsweetened grapefruit because it keeps the fat off my stomach. All this makes me feel good mentally. It makes me know I've got the discipline I need. I'm in control of my own diet.
Now, we set up a training camp. But even after we get everybody down to the camp, I'm still not ready to start training, I have to take a week just to get the thought in my mind that a fight's coming up.
(...) I have to think about George. I concentrate on him so much that I can feel his presence around me. I shadowbox with him.
Now, after a week, I get up at five o'clock in the morning and run. For the first three days I run a mile a day to get adjusted to the idea of running, to build up my legs and ankles, to constantly jar my heart into condition. After that I start adding to it, a mile a day.
This is the key for me. My defense depends on my legs. When I've lost, it was because my legs gave out. I couldn't dance, I couldn't jump out of my opponent's range. I got hit. Now I run myself to exhaustion so that if I have to go to the fifteenth round with George I'll be ready. I'll be tired and winded, but I'll be used to working under that tiredness. I push myself on the road so that no matter how hard my fight is, I won't get as tired in the ring as I do out here running.
It takes time to run and build up my legs, build my stamina, eat the right foods, get up and strain myself. If I run only three miles and I'm not tired, then I figure that day didn't do me any good. I've got to add on another mile or two until I make myself tired. When I'm doing my exercises, I don't start counting till I start paining. And the minute I start paining, I keep pushing under that pain.
(...) After running I take a long walk and I think about what I have to do for the day. Training is tough and boresome; sometimes it helps to have something to think about and take my mind off the pain.
When I come back off the road around seven-thirty, I take a rest. Running and jogging stirs me up internally and mentally to the point where I've got to cool off. I'm tired but I'm wide awake. I rest but I
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can't sleep; I'm too jittery, too jumpy. I stay in my cabin for a while, watch television, read the papers or look at magazines. I bring my opponent into focus and I plan for the battle.
Around nine o'clock I have breakfast. I don't eat very much because I don't want too much on my stomach before afternoon workout. Afterwards I sleep from about eleven till one-thirty. By two o'clock I'm in the gym.
I train like I fight. Some fighters train in four or five minute rounds, but I break up my workout into three minute rounds just like in a fight. I start with three rounds on the heavy bag, three rounds on the speed bag, three rounds on the jump rope. And between each round I take a one-minute rest because this is the way it's going to be in a fight. No shorter, no longer, exactly a minute. This means a lot when I'm working myself into condition. I can be really tired after the fourth or fifth round, but if I'm in shape all I need is one minute to get my wind back, to sit and breathe in and out as slow and as deep as possible. If I'm not in shape, I could have a five minute rest after the first round and it would mean nothing. My heart, my pulse, my timing, internally, would be off: I'd be sore. But if I'm in shape, one minute will stimulate me and charge me up enough to come out strong and aggressive the last and fifteenth round.
(...) I move to the heavy bag for three rounds. This bag was designed to build up hitting power. I remember what an old trainer told me once. He said, 'Always hit that heavy bag like you're trying to knock a hole right through it.' The heavy bag weighs between a hundred and fifty and two hundred pounds, and it's about five feet tall. This is the most important part of the workout. The minute I hit it, I feel it knocking weight off me. It jars the weight off, tightens my stomach, trims my waistline, tightens up my muscles. It makes my wrists stronger, my fist, my knuckles. I push it out and let it come back and hit me in the stomach to toughen up my shoulders and arms.
The first few days I hit it, the bag feels like sandpaper. The heat and the friction will knock the skin off my knuckles, but I'll keep on hitting it. My knuckles will be tender and soon they'll be covered with dead skin. I'll keep working on the bag until this skin gets white and cracks. Then I'll tear it off and let my hands heal for a week before getting back on it.
(...) After the heavy bag, I go right to the speed bag. This is the
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small bag that instantly snaps right back at me. I hit it twice with each hand. Two shots with the left, two shots with the right. As fast as I can, two shots with the left, two shots with the right, again and again. It sharpens up my eyes, watching my hands go back and forth, and it builds up my arms. This is especially important for the Foreman fight. George throws bone-crushing punches, and my arms have got to be strong enough to withstand them. They can't get tired and drop. If they do I'll be in trouble.
Next I take a few rounds jumping rope. This is good for my leg muscles, good for my wrists, constantly flipping that rope. It's good for my timing, and the jumping up and down builds up my heart. I start to get tired but I know I've got to do this so I won't be tired in the fight.
I save my sparring for last, instead of doing it first like most fighters. I want to go in the ring tired. If I went in right away, I'd have all my stamina, my resistance wouldn't be-low and I wouldn't be under any pressure. I want to be ready in case George lasts more than ten rounds. If he does, I may have to beat him on points and I'll need extra stamina to win.
I always make sure that my sparring partners are fresh. I make sure they do nothing but rest up and wait for me. We go at it strong and I'm twice as tired as they are. This forces me to liven up when they put the pressure on. It forces me to get them off of me. It forces me to dance and stay on my toes, to jab and get in, jab to the body and get out, hook to the head, tire them out fast. I'm tired mentally, too. This makes me think and react under pressure. It's equivalent to going into the tenth, eleventh, twelfth or thirteenth round of a fight. This way, when I beat my sparring partner to the punch after he comes in stronger, I have a good feeling because this man is fresh. I know that even after I've done all my other training and I'm tired, I can still go with this man, who is much fresher and has more energy than I have. I can still get to him, I can still take him.
(...) I'm tired and groggy, but I keep driving myself. My arms and legs are sore from working out and absorbing punches, but I know this is crucial. I look at my sparring partner and I see George's face. Now my eyes suddenly seem to clear up. I forget how tired I am. I can see blows coming at me before they even leave my sparring partner's chest. My left and my right are on target. I can hook, uppercut. I can do anything I want to do. My muscles do anything I tell them.
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After the workout I take a shower, get a massage and take it easy until around five o'clock, when I have dinner. Then I sit around and talk, or read, or look at a movie until ten or eleven o'clock, when I go to bed..
By the time the fight is ten days away, I'll be through with most of my physical training. Now I concentrate on my mental conditioning. If my body isn't ready by then, it'll be too late. I'll follow my plans up until three days before the fight and then I'll start to loosen up and rest. Then I'll have to save up my energy so I'll be at my strongest when the bell rings. I want my mind and body working together. That's the way a fighter prepares.
On October 30th 1974, Muhammad Ali fights with George Foreman at Kinshasa (Zaire). After seven very gruelling rounds, during the eight round, he sends Foreman to the floor, obtaining his 32nd victory by K.O., regaining the World Heavyweight Title. During his boxing career (from 1960 to 1975), Muhammad Ali fought 51 times and lost only twice.
From Muhammad Ali, The Greatest — My Own Story.
Mayflower Books Ltd, U.K., 1976.
Ancient boxers depicted in an
early rock painting
(Bhimbetka, India)
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Cricket
The Jam Sahib of Nawanagar*
As cricket is a very special game in India, we felt that, even if we could not hope to bring stories about every possible games, we should at least have one on cricket. We found a very refreshing short essay by A.G. Gardiner about Ranjit Singh, a Prince Batsman who enchanted quite long ago the British and Indian crowds, a legend in the annals of cricket.
The last ball has been bowled, the bats have been oiled and put away, and around Lord's the grandstands are empty and sad looking. We have said goodbye to cricket. We have said good bye, too, to cricket's king. The game will come again with the spring and the new grass and the blossoming tree. But the king will come no more. For the Jam Sahib is forty, and alas, the Jam Sahib is fat. And the temple bells are calling him back to his princely duties amid the sun shine, and the palm trees, and the spicy garlic smells of Nawanagar. No more shall we see him running lightly down the pavilion steps, his face wreathed in chubby smiles, no more shall we sit in the jolly sunshine throughout the day and watch his incomparable art till the evening shadows fall across the grass and send us home content. The actor with the many graces leaves the stage and becomes only a memory in a ' world of happy memories. And so 'hats off to the Jam Sahib — the prince of a little State, but the king of a great game....
I think it is undeniable that as a batsman the Indian will live as the supreme master of the Englishman's game. The claim does not rest simply on his achievements, although, judged by them, the claim could be sustained. His season's average of 87 with a total of over 3,000 runs, is easily the highest point ever reached in English cricket. Three times he has totalled over 3,000 runs, and no one else has equalled that's
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* Nawanagar is also known as Jamnagar, on the west coast of India, not far from Dwarka, in Saurashtra, Gujarat.
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record. And is not his the astonishing achievement of scoring two double centuries in a single match on a single day — not against a feeble attack, but against Yorkshire, always the most determined and resourceful of bowling teams? , .
But we do not judge a cricketer so much by the runs he gets as by the way he gets them. In literature as in finance,' says Washington Irving, 'much paper and much poverty may exist side by side.' And in cricket, too, many runs and much dullness may be associated. If cricket is menaced with creeping paralysis, it is because it is losing the spirit of
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joyful adventure and becoming a mere instrument for building up tables of averages. There are dull, mechanic fellows who turn out runs with as little emotions as a machine turns out pins.... There is no colour, no enthusiasm, no character in their play. Cricket is not an adventure to them: it is a business. It was so with Shrewsbury. His technical perfection was astonishing; but the soul of the game was wanting in him. There was no sunshine in his play, no swift surprise or splendid unselfishness. And without these things, without gaiety, daring and the spirit of sacrifice, cricket is a dead thing. Now the Jam Sahib has the root of the matter in him. His play is as sunny as his face. He is not a miser storing up runs, but a millionaire spending them, with a splendid yet wise generosity. It is as though his pockets are bursting with runs that he wants to shower with his blessings upon the waiting crowds. It is not difficult to believe that in his little kingdom of Nawanagar, where he has the power of life and death in his hands, he is extremely popular, for it is obvious that his pleasure is in giving pleasure.
In the quality of his play he is unlike anything that has been seen on the cricket field, certainly in our time. There is extraordinarily little display in his methods. He combines an Eastern calm with an Eastern swiftness — the stillness of the panther with the suddenness of its spring. He has none of the fine flourishes of our own stylists, but quite a startling economy of action. The normal batsman, obeying a natural impulse, gets into motion as the bowler starts his run. He seems to try to move at the same speed as his enemy, and his movements gradually get faster and faster until they reach a crisis. At the end of the stroke the bat has moved in a circle, the feet are out of place, the original attitude has been lost in a whirl of motion.... The style of the Jam Sahib is entirely different. He stands motionless as the bowler approaches the wicket. He remains motionless as the ball is delivered. It seems to be on him before he takes action. Then, without any flourish as a preparation for the stroke, the bat flashes to the ball, and the stroke is over. The body seems never to have changed its position, the feet apparently unmoved, the bat is as before. Nothing has happened except that one sudden flash — swift, perfectly timed, indisputable.
'Like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say it lightens.'
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If the supreme art is to achieve the maximum result with the mini mum effort, the Jam Sahib, as a batsman, is in a class by himself. We have no one to challenge with our coarser methods that curious delicacy and purity of style, which seems to have reduced action to its simplest form.... The typical batsman performs a serial of complicated movements in laying the ball; the Jam Sahib makes a slight movement of his wrist and the ball races to the ropes. It is not a trick nor magic: it is simply the perfect economy of means to an end. His batting may be com pared with the public speaking of Mr Asquith [a prominent British politician], who is as economical in the use of words as the Jam Sahib in the use of action, and achieves the same completeness of effect. The Jam Sahib never uses an action too much; Mr. Asquith never uses a word too many. Each is a model in the fine art of omission of unessentials, that concentration on the one thing that needs to be said or done....
Probably no cricketer has ever won so special a place in the affections of the people.... It is the Jam Sahib's supreme service that through his genius for the English game, he has made the English people familiar with the idea of the Indian as a man of the same affections with our selves, and with capacities beyond ours in directions supposed to be particularly our own. In a word, he is the first Indian who has touched the imagination of our people....
And if India has sought to make herself heard and understood by the people who control her from a long distance away she could not have found a more triumphant missionary than the Jam Sahib, with his smile and his bat. 'Great Indians come to us frequently, men of high scholar ship, rare powers of speech, noble character — the Gokhales, the Bannerjees, the Tagores. They come and they go, unseen and unheard by the mass of the people. The Jam Sahib has brought the East into the heart of our happy holiday crowds, and has taught them to think of it as something human and kind-hearted, and keenly responsive to the joys that appeal to us....
He goes back to his own people — to the little State that he recovered so romantically, and governs as a good Liberal should govern — and the holiday crowds will see him no more. But his name will live in the hearts of hundreds of thousands of British people, to whom he has given happy days and happy memories.
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A.G. Gardiner
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Dance is fundamentally a subject of aesthetics. But the artistic culture of the body that it involves requires us to include this subject under the scope of this book.
One of the greatest dancers of our modern times was Anna Pavlova, and a few glimpses of her personality can be gathered from the extracts that we are presenting below from a book written by Agnes deMille.
Agnes deMille was born in 1909 in New York City. Her father was the playwright William deMille, and her uncle the famous film director Cecil B. deMille. As a young girl she saw the great Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova perform, and from that moment onwards her life was devoted to dance. Agnes deMille grew up to become a well-known dancer and an important choreographer of ballets and dances for musical drama. Some of her most famous works include Oaklahoma! Carousel, Brigadoon, and Paint Your Wagon. She was as well a prolific writer, and Dance to the Piper, from which we take the extracts below, is considered a classic in its genre. Agnes deMille was the recipient of numerous awards and honorary degrees and in 1965 became the first president of the Society of Stage Directors and Choreographers.
In 1975, at the age of 66, Agnes deMille's life took an unexpected and potentially tragic turn, which her devotion to dance and unswerving will turned into an inspiring victory. She relates the story in a television interview:
"On May 15, 1975, I was about to give a dance concert which consisted of a lecture and my whole company, the American Heritage Dance Theatre, demonstrating the best
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of dance in the United States. Everybody in New York was coming and it was sold out. I was sitting in the dress rehearsal, and one of the dancers couldn't go on — this happens — and a substitute arrived and I said, 'I'll sign you a contract and make you legal, otherwise the union won't let you cross the stage. So I picked up a pen and the contract and then said, 'Well, this is odd, I can't write!
Within the hour, as a doctor was being summoned, Agnes deMille remembered her body becoming cold and numb. She lost all feeling, all energy, throughout her right side. In the ambulance she became paralysed and intermittently unconscious. At the hospital her husband was informed that she would probably not live another day.
"The one thing that was astonishing-about it all was there was no pain — no sensation, nothing startling, nothing surprising. You would expect that when your life alters, a thunderclap or something drastic would happen but there was nothing. This is deadly. ".
On the night of her admission, to the hospital a CAT scan of her brain revealed a haemorrhage on the right side in areas associated with motor control, language and vision. Two nights later, another scan revealed that the haemorrhage had vanished almost completely. She was left half paralyzed on the right side.
"There were two difficulties and frightening sensations: one was not knowing how far the paralysis was advancing and what it was doing to me. I couldn't feel at all on the right side of my body or my face, and the right hand would do absolutely wild, outrageous things, I couldn't control it. I also found I didn't know where it was."
Her doctor relates:
" Not knowing where that hand, that leg was, she re learned to walk and to use the hand and to function by looking with her eyes. She would pass the hand, pass the
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leg, watching it, using her eyes as feelers. Most patients with this kind of a defect find it so hard to re-learn that they give up. It was her determination which got her so far. It is very touching."
Says Agnes deMille:
"Well you know, I think I kept on going because it's in my character and what I was brought up to be in my family. I am a trained dancer as well — and dancers go through a regimen of exercises and self-control all their lives long. It was instinctive. I did whatever I had to do. And then a little later I began thinking about doing some performances and of my work, which is of very great interest to me."
The doctor continues:
"Sometimes I wonder whether enthusiasm and joy and interest in the world and just plain determination don't form connections between nerve cells faster than nature takes them away as we grow older. That quality of hope, of drive, of walking ten steps as if you are running a one hundred yard dash — that has something to do not only with the quality of life but I am really confident with the length of life and the recovery from severe illness. One can will oneself to die and one can certainly will oneself to be better."
Agnes deMille went on to walk, and to work. In her mid-80's she was still choreographing new dances and writing books. Looking at her life, a life of such commitment, such generosity of spirit and such love of one's art, we cannot but feel that Agnes deMille is a worthy disciple of her great mentor, Anna Pavlova.
In the following extracts, Agnes deMille speaks of her meetings with Pavlova, and then of the rigorous training young boys and girls must undergo to become classical ballet dancers.
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Anna Pavlova! My life stops as I write that name. Across the daily preoccupation of lessons, lunch boxes, tooth brushing and quarrelings with my sister flashed this bright, unworldly experience and burned in a single afternoon a path over which I could never retrace my steps. I had witnessed the power of beauty, and in some chamber of my heart I lost forever my irresponsibility. I was as clearly marked as though she had looked me in the face and called my name. For generations my father's family had loved and served the theatre. All my life I had seen actors and actresses and had heard theatre jargon at the dinner table. I had thrilled at Father's projects and watched fascinated his picturesque occupations.... But nothing in his world or my uncle's [Hollywood movie moghul Cecil B. deMille] prepared me for theatre as I saw it that Saturday afternoon.
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As her little bird body revealed itself on the scene, either immobile in trembling mystery or tense in the incredible arc which was her lift, her instep stretched ahead in an arch never before seen, the tiny bones of her hands in ceaseless vibration, her face radiant, diamonds glittering under her dark hair, her little waist encased in silk, the great tutu balancing, quickening and flashing over her beating, flashing, quivering legs, every man and woman sat forward, every pulse quickened. She never appeared to rest static, some part of her trembled, vibrated, beat like a heart. Before our dazzled eyes, she flashed with the sudden sweetness of a hummingbird in action too quick for understanding by our gross utilitarian standards, in action sensed rather than seen. The movie cameras of her day could not record her allegro. Her feet and hands photographed as a blur.
Bright little bird bones, delicate bird sinews! She was all fire and steel wire. There was not an ounce of spare flesh on her skeleton, and the life force used and used her body until she died of the fever of moving, gasping for breath, much too young.
She was small, about five feet. She wore a size one and a half slip per, but her feet and hands were large in proportion to her height. Her hand could cover her whole face. Her trunk was small and stripped of all anatomy but the ciphers of adolescence, her arms and legs relatively long, the neck extraordinarily long and mobile. All her gestures were liquid and possessed of an inner rhythm that flowed to inevitable completion with the finality of architecture or music. Her arms seemed to lift not from the elbow or the arm socket, but from the base of the spine. Her legs seemed to function from the waist. When she bent her head her whole spine moved and the motion was completed the length of the arm through the elongation of her slender hand and the quivering reaching fingers. I believe there has never been a foot like hers, slender, delicate and of such an astonishing aggressiveness when arched as to suggest the ultimate in human vitality. Without in any way being sensual, being, in fact, almost sexless, she suggested all exhilaration, gaiety and delight. She jumped, and we broke. bonds with reality. We new. We hung over the earth, spread in the air as we do in dreams, our hands turning in the air as in water — the strong forthright taut plunging leg balanced on the poised arc of the foot, the other leg stretched to the horizon like the wing of a bird. We lay balancing, quivering, turning, and all things were possible, even to us, the ordinary people.
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(...) I sat with the blood beating in my throat. As I walked into the bright glare of the afternoon, my head ached and I could scarcely swallow. I didn't wish to cry. I certainly couldn't speak. I sat in a daze in the car oblivious to the grownups' ceaseless prattle. At home I climbed the stairs slowly to my bedroom and, shutting myself in, placed both hands on the brass rail at the foot of my bed, then rising laboriously to the tips of my white buttoned shoes I stumped the width of the bed and back again. My toes throbbed with pain, my knees shook, my legs quivered with weakness. I repeated the exercise. The blessed, relieving tears stuck at last on my lashes. Only by hurting my feet could I ease the pain in my throat.
(...) Anna Pavlova was born in St. Petersburg of a Jewish mother and an unknown father, reputedly a laundress and a peasant. She was a graduate of the Imperial School and one of the last five ranking ballerinas of the Maryinski Theatre. Pavlova was the first great star to leave the Czarist confines and toured Scandinavia one summer with Adolph Bolm. They forfeited their pensions for doing so. The Scandinavians had never seen any dancing like it. Years later Bolm used to...beguile beginners like me with tales of the great days. There were dinners, banquets, torchlight processions, horses unhitched from the carriage, mobs outside the hotel windows, flowers thrown down on their heads. And in the winter, in the snows, when they went touring through the Russian provinces, trainloads of balletomanes followed them from city to city, rich and enthusiastic young men bringing their own servants and wine and horses, and in some cases furniture, along with them, and laughing with...the snow matted on their fur coats, to see the darling, the great new ballerina, Anna Pavlova, rolling like a kitten in the snow, frisking and waving her incredible little feet like deer's hoofs.
The short tour through Scandinavia gave her a taste for the outer world and in 1905 she followed Diaghilev to Paris and danced opposite Nijinsky in the initial, legendary season at the Theatre du Chatelet. I am told their waltz in Les Sylphides was the lightest, most aerial and brilliant dancing ever seen by living eye. She shortly broke away, how ever, to become star in her company and thereafter toured the world, back and forth, around and around and never stopped.
A few years later...
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Anna Pavlova came back. I heard of the return with a mixture of excitement and dread. What if she was not as I remembered her?... I knew a great deal more about technique now; I would look at her with a critical eye.
(...) We were excused from school for the Thursday afternoon matinee. I ate scarcely any lunch. I saw to it that we were in our seats twenty minutes before the curtain rose. The ballet was Autumn Leaves corn-, posed by Madame herself to music by Chopin....
She came on. What did she do? Does it matter? She was gone. The audience stirred. She was back and dancing. Right there in front of me in flesh and nerve. Oh, holy life! How could I have doubted her? She changed us while we sat there that Thursday afternoon; she made us less daily. I don't know what she did. I know and remember what she meant. The upturned face, the waiting listening face, the exposed heart, the shared rapture.
A friend touched my shoulder. "Would you like to meet her? I know her well." Mother answered for me. I was unable to speak. "She would. Yes." We filed backstage. I remember the dress I wore, dark blue silk taffeta, my first silk dress. I had a little blue hat to match with petals that curled up against the crown. My sister was an exact replica two sizes smaller. Madame had finished the program with a Russian dance. She stood in full Boyarina costume in the dressing room talking to friends. She spoke in light, twittering sounds and her dark eyes flashed incessantly with enormous alertness and inner excitement. Her claw like hands played nervously with the pearls at her throat. They were the veined hands of an old woman or of an instrumentalist. I noticed her insteps jutting up under the straps of her buttoned slippers. The rocky arch was like a bird claw. There seemed to be no flesh on the foot; it s all bone and tendon. The toe was clubby, broadened and coarse. Her little thin shoulders lifted from the gathered peasant blouse. What was gross had been burnt and wasted off her. She had kept no part of her body that was not useful to her art, and there was about her the tragic aura of absolute decision. The high pale brow, her front against e world, the sombre eyes, the mobile lips shut with humorous tolerance on God knows what tumult and violence caged within the little skull, marked her as one apart. She had the fascination of a martyr. We drew aside and looked at her with both reverence and relief, smug in our own freedom. Possibly I am reading back into her face the wisdom
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of my own bitterness learned later. Possibly as a girl I saw only the glory. But I think not. I knew enough to understand the cost of the beauty she achieved and to be terrified at the price.
"This is Kosloff's best pupil," said my friend, pushing me forward. An exaggeration, of course, but I was incapable of speech. Kosloff had undoubtedly presented his own candidate nights before.
"Ah! Brava! Brava!" chirped Madame. "Would you like some flowers?" She tore a handful of pink carnations and cherry blossoms from a basket that had just been handed to her across the footlights. Then she leaned down and kissed me. Anna Pavlova kissed me.
I wept.
Someone led me kindly from the room, maybe Mother. Someone stood beside me and lent me a pocket handkerchief while I fought to regain control of myself among the hurrying stagehands. Someone helped me into the car and asked no questions. I was weeping silently by this time.
"Well," said Margaret, "I must say I don't see what there is to cry \ about." :
"Be quiet!" said Mother with the greatest severity I had ever heard ;
her use in addressing my little sister.
When we reached home I ran through the garden without stopping to take off my coat and threw myself on the ground under the orchard trees.
O Father in Heaven make me worthy!
I kept the flowers she gave me for ten years in a box, shaming myself at last into throwing the little mummies away. Dear Madame, she kissed all the little girls that were brought backstage to her, gave them all flowers and altered their lives. One out of every dozen dancers of my generation has confessed to the same experience. That does not make it any less impressive — more so, I should say. She was an apostle. She had the power of conversion. That it may have come in time to seem a touch routine to members of her company does not mitigate the miracle. The recipients bear stigmata.
She returned again three years later, her last tour. ;
(...) She wore her hair fuzzed out in black curls, grapes over the, ears, and a white tunic flecked with red. Her partner's arm about her, she entered skipping, the knees working like pistons to the chest and the feet driving through the earth. The dancers carried over their heads
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a scarlet veil, and the man held a large bunch of red paper roses with which he pelted her. Occasionally, she chewed a paper rose with her teeth. Corn? Thunder and fire. The working knees, the feet tearing the earth, the wild glance, the flamelike thrust and contraction of her back, the abandoned arms, her body broken and contorted on his thigh, the exhausted flame against the earth as he stood over her, the head moving moving, in restless joy, the hands torn, stretching, fainting, unresting. Oh ancient ecstasy, passion beyond promise!
She danced The Dying Swan.... It is probably the most famous solo in the history of dancing. When she trembled onto the stage it was a death agony, the voice in the dark, the final anonymous cry against annihilation. And when she lay doubled up and the last shudder passed through feathers and broken bones, drawing as an afterbeat when all was finished the shivering inert hand across her face in a gesture of final decency, everyone sat stricken. Death was upon each of us.
Death came to Anna Pavlova in 1931, when she was fifty. She had not stopped touring for a single season. Her knees had sustained some damage, but she would not rest, and she was in a state of exhaustion when the train that was carrying her to Holland was wrecked. She ran out into the snow in her nightgown and insisted on helping the wound ed. When she reached The Hague she had double pneumonia. Her last spoken words were, "Get the Swan dress ready."
I saw the headlines on the front page of the New York Times. It did not seem possible. She was in essence the denial of death. My own life was rooted to her in a deep spiritual sense and had been during the whole of my growing up. It mattered not that I had only spoken to her once and that my work lay in a different direction. She was the vision and the impulse and the goal.
Her death touched off a world-wide hysteria among adolescent girls that is without precedent. Several young dancers identified themselves so completely with the star as to believe in fact that her soul had transmigrated into their own bodies. Each one felt that she had got the original or genuine soul and looked upon the other claimants as impostors.
(...) Pavlova's ashes were laid in the Golder's Green cemetery near her home, Ivy House, Hampstead Heath.... But also in New York, in s Angeles, in Paris, Berlin, Rome, San Francisco, wherever there as a Russian Orthodox Church, the dancers gathered, those that knew her and many more that didn't. I went in New York and all the dancers
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of the city were there. My mother came. She said she wished to, that she owed her a debt of many hours of joy. We stood. The Russians held lighted candles; the choir chanted with a high tonal insistency that wore down like rain on rock. The priest passed in and out of his paint ed, holy screens. A friend leaned to me. "They are singing," she whispered, "Receive the soul of Anna. Cherish our Anna. Bless and protect Anna." But I put my handkerchief to my mouth and heard the drums and the beating of feet and the cries she gave as she leaped. At the conclusion of the service, Fokine as senior friend, colleague, and Russian, received our condolences....
We went out into the day. Wherever Pavlova had passed, hearts changed, flames sprang in the grass and girls ran out to a strange, wild, ancient dedication.
________________________________
From Agnes deMille, Dance to the Piper,
Da Capo Press Inc., New York.
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Anna Pavlova — Biographical Note
Anna Pavlova was born on January 31, 1881. Her life's ambition crystallized in childhood, at a performance of The Sleeping Beauty ballet, at the Maryinski Theatre in St. Petersburg. "It never entered my mind," she remembered later, "that there were easier goals to attain than that of a principal dancer of the Imperial Ballet."
At the age of ten she was admitted to a famous ballet academy and was soon singled out by her teachers. Bypassing the corps de ballet, Pavlova was accepted into the Maryinski company in 1899, and in 1905 was appointed to the rank of prima ballerina. Her performances were so popular that students would apply for jobs as extras just to see them. Theatre staff would crowd into the auditorium to watch the rehearsals.
Such was her prestige that she was soon going on independent tours in Russia, and later throughout Europe and America. In 1912, Pavlova settled permanently in London, taking up residence in Ivy House, Golders Green.
Anna Pavlova died, under the circumstances described by Agnes deMille, on January 23, 1931, at the age of 50.
The Classical Ballet Dancer's Body and Training
Paradoxically enough ballet dancing is designed to give the impression of lightness and ease. Nothing in classic dancing should be convulsive or tormented. Derived from the seventeenth and eighteenth-century court dances the style is kingly, a series of harmonious and balanced postures linked by serene movement. The style involves a total defiance of gravity, and because this must perforce be an illusion, the effect is achieved first by an enormous strengthening of the legs and feet to produce great resilient jumps and second by a co-ordination of arms and head in a rhythm slower than the rhythm of the legs which have no choice but to take the weight of the body when the body falls. But the slow relaxed movement of head and arms gives the illusion of sustained flight, gives the sense of effortless ease. The lungs may be bursting, the heart pounding in the throat, sweat springing from every pore, but hands "lust float in repose, the head stir gently as though swooning in delight. The diaphragm must be lifted to expand the chest fully, proudly; the abdomen Pulled in flat. The knees must be taut and flat to give the extended leg every inch of length. The leg must be turned outward forty-five degrees in the hip socket so that the side of the knee and die long unbroken line of the leg are
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presented to view and never the lax, droopy line of a bent knee. The leg must look like a sword. The foot arches to prolong the line of extension. The sup porting foot turns out forty-five degrees to enhance the line of the supporting leg, to keep the hips even, and to ensure the broadest possible base for the sup port and balancing of the body.
It should always be remembered that the court, and therefore the first, bal let dances were performed by expert swordsmen and derive much of their style from fencing positions. The discipline embraces the whole deportment. The lifted foot springs to attention the minute it leaves the floor. The supporting foot endures all, the instep must never give way even when the whole weight of the body drops and grinds on the single slim arch. The legs can be held in their turned position by the great muscles across the buttocks only by pulling the buttocks in flat. The spine should be steady, the expression of the face noble, the face of a king to whom all things are possible. The eyebrows may not go up, the shoulders may not lift, the neck may not stiffen, nor the mouth open like a hooked fish.
The five classic positions and the basic arm postures and steps were named at the request of Louis XIV by his great ballet master, Pécourt, Lully's collaborator, codified, described and fixed in the regimen of daily exercise which has become almost ceremonial with time. Since then the technique has expanded and diversified but the fundamental steps and nomenclature remain unchanged....
The ideal ballet body is long limbed with a small compact torso. This makes for beauty of line; the longer the arms and legs the more exciting the body line. The ideal ballet foot has a high taut instep and a wide stretch in the Achilles' tendon. This tendon is the spring on which a dancer pushes for his jump, the hinge on which he takes the shock of landing. If there is one tendon in a dancer's body more important than any other, it is this tendon. It is, I should say, the prerequisite for all great technique. When the heel does not stretch easily and softly like a cat's, as mine did not, almost to the point of malformation, the shock of running or jumping must be taken somewhere in the spine by sticking out behind, for instance, in a sitting posture after every jump. I seemed to be all rusty wire and safety pins. My torso was long with unusually broad hips, my legs and arms abnormally short, my hands and feet broad and short. I was besides fat. What I did not know was that I was constructed for endurance and that I developed through effort alone a capacity for outperforming far, far better technicians. Because I was built like a mustang, stocky, mettlesome and sturdy, I became a good jumper, growing special compensating muscles up the front of my shins for the lack of a helpful heel. But the long, cool, serene classic line was forever denied me.
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In The Dancing Class, the French painter Degas captured a
moment in the arduous training routine of the young ballerinas
at the Paris Opera, 1873
And at first, of course, the compensations and adjustments were neither present nor indicated. Every dancer makes his own body. He is born only with certain physical tendencies. This making of a ballet, leg takes approximately ten years and the initial stages are almost entirely discouraging, for even the best look awkward and paralyzed at the beginning....
From Agnes deMille, Dance to The Piper 391
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Ram Gopal was born in Bangalore early in this century, from an Indian father and a Burmese mother. He received a complete training in Kathakali dance with his gurus Meenakshisundaram Pillai and Kujun Kurup but he was also interested in other forms of folk and temple dancing.
He went abroad several times before and after the second World War and was the first Indian to dance the age-old legends of India in a Japanese theatre. Ram Gopal went to America, Poland, France and was happy to feel that he could understand completely the classic storehouse of European and Indian music. After his return to India, he continued to use the Kathakali dance teachings, gestures and rhythms, but the dances were always creative. He also danced in the Kathak style.
After the war, he resumed his tours abroad, going to Sweden, Norway, Finland and America with his company. In the extract from his autobiography Rhythm in the Heavens that we are presenting below. Ram Gopal gives a vivid testimony of his training as a young dancer under the guidance of Kujun Kurup.
His deeper attitude to life and dance can be summarised by the quotation from Remain Rolland that he chose to put at the beginning of his Autobiography: "For the naked soul there is neither Occident nor Orient. These are only the garments. The world is his home. And his home, being of all, belongs to all."
When training under my gurus in their own towns I went to bed with the chirping of the birds as they settled themselves in the branches of the surrounding banyan and cashew nut trees between seven and eight o'clock at the latest, in the evenings. Hardly had my head touched the woven mat I slept on than I would fall asleep. And always in my sleep I was some God destroying all the dark
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devils that kept arising out of the shadows, or Rama, hero prince of the epic Ramayana, wandering in forests accompanied by the beautiful Sita. Inevitably at two o'clock in the morning in the pitch black of our Indian night, I would feel the light touch of Kunju Kurup: "Son, get up, you've only half an hour to arise. Bathe yourself with some water and come and have some coffee or milk. We must work hard today." "We must work hard today." How many days, how many weeks, months, years, went into those words "We must work hard today, you've so much to learn."
Shaking myself out of sleep and fatigue, I would drag myself rumbling to the well, haul up buckets of cold water and often give myself a good splash with a bucketful of water to shock me into full wakeful ness, and then rub myself down quickly with a towel. The nights at that hour in South India are chilly. Then, wearing my dhoti, a piece of white cotton around my waist and legs, I would go to the place of instruction.
In the simple thatched cottage of this great teacher, lessons began with eye practice. And often, I could not help feeling, had a third party seen what went on between my great Guru and myself 'making faces' by the light of kerosene lamps, they would have thought us quite mad. Kunju Kurup, with his right hand raised and forefinger extended, would move his arm with a circular motion first to the right, then left, then cross-ways, forming the figure eight and such-like patterns; all this sitting about three feet away from me. Without moving my head I had to follow with my eyes alone every single pattern that he traced with his forefinger in the air. How my eyes watered! But no matter, I could not stop to wipe away the tears that inevitably came during such practices. The more my eyes wept, the more certain Kunju Kurup was that I was performing these rigid exercises correctly. After about an hour and a half, with perhaps a quick interval or two in between, and after streams of tears had flowed from my eyes, Kunju Kurup would say: "The ghee I've used today must be good and much fresher than yesterday's, for your eyes are redder and you've been able to go on much longer today." By his side was a green banana leaf and by the end of the hour and a half of eye exercises the leaf would be empty of its spoonful of pure ghee. Most of the eye exercises had three tempos: slow, faster and very fast. But how refreshed and strong I felt at the end of these practices! And how my eyes gleamed, like two lights burning from within and filled with fire. I used to be so fascinated by them that
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when I caught a glimpse of them in a mirror they seemed truly to belong to those Gods my great teacher talked about always. It was with a start that I realized they belonged in my own face!
Towel wrapped round his head as was his custom, Kunju Kurup would now move closer to me and I could see by lamplight every single expression of his eyes, shining too, and feel his breathing. Taking what remained of the ghee, he would then massage my entire face and neck with his own hands, using all the muscles that give mobility to the face in the expression of the Kathakali dances: about the eyebrows, beneath the eyes, the cheeks, over and above and below both the lips and the sides of the neck. Then a specialized assistant of Kunju Kurup, a masseur trained in the science of the Ayur Vedic medicinal methods, would come in. After covering me liberally with gingelly oil, a sort of mustard oil strengthened with herbs and having a strange odour of its own, peculiar to Malabar, he made me lie face downwards. The masseur would then, with his right foot massage my spine from the base up and then round in semi-circular movements on both my right and left sides. This would be repeated right down to the extremities of my arms and legs. Then I would be made to turn over and, excluding the face the same movements would massage every single muscle of my body, the masseur supporting himself either on a bamboo stick to maintain his balance, or often holding on to some part of the low hanging thatched roof and maintaining an even balance as both feet worked on my body. This finished, and feeling extraordinarily light and toned up, I would be asked to rise and go through a lot of postures and rhythms that made for flexibility and a controlled co-ordination.
With the first light of early morning breaking in through the small windows, Kunju Kurup would order some fresh milk to be boiled. While this was done I would take another quick bath and be ready in a few minutes to join him for his early morning breakfast. Then he would tenderly ask me: "Did you sleep well last night?" Looking at him with surprised confusion, I would catch his eyes laughing, but his face was absolutely immobile. It was only by the comers of his mouth where I looked to see what mood he was really in, being the superb actor that he was, that I would know he was having a mild joke! There would be a one-hour break till about eight-thirty and then back again to the earthen floor, which is supposed to take the heat out of one's body and to be strengthening to the legs for the strenuous practices that went on all the time.
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"Today you will be Krishna and 1 shall be your poor childhood friend Sudama who comes to beg for alms." Or, "You shall be the beautiful maiden Damyanti and I shall be your handsome price Nala, and I want you to convince by every look, gesture and expression that you are truly, deeply in love with me." Occasionally he would say: "We've had enough of love this past week; now you shall become the terrible Ravanna and we do battle." And so it went on, right through the varied and rich pantheon of Hindu Gods and demons. I was made to think, act, feel and become each of them and to believe that I 'was' some Divinity or Devil. And I did. Most of the characters we enacted came out of those classics that every Hindu is versed in, the Ramayana and Mahabharata. When it got too hot at a little past midday we would retire for yet another bath. By way of a change I would plunge into the cool waters of a running stream or rivulet. Then a light lunch eaten off banana leaves and a rest for an hour. Then back again, inevitably, to more practice until early evening.
After dinner in the evenings we would sit cross-legged on the floor or on wooden stools and Kunju Kurup would teach me the hand gestures and facial expression only. These were the 'Mudra' sessions. ' Mudras are the elaborate gesture language of the hands by which the dancer tells a story. In the four main schools of Hindu dancing there are some five thousand single and combined double-hand Mudras, or gestures that have to be learnt precisely to produce that 'flow' that is such a characteristic of this form of dance.
Kunju Kurup kept repeating to me: "You must become, you must concentrate and feel so intensely all I tell you when we are working that you are not conscious of the self. The self is forgotten, unimportant, small, of this world. But that 'other self, the God you are portraying, must come to life by sheer will-power and concentration, and this is possible only if you are completely lost in the rhythm of the moment."
In my dance of Siva's Sandhya-nritta-murti, the dance that Siva per forms at the setting of the sun, 'He, Lord of the evening dance', I could not help feeling in this purely personal dance creation of mine, in which I used the Kathakali technique, that I was on Mount Kailasa, those peaks first scaled by Tensing and Hillary. In this dance I had to convey the gently rhythmic movements of the oceans, the winds and the twinkling stars of the evening and show the benign aspects of
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Nature at her best. With only the black curtains behind me I so immersed myself in Siva, the Divine Yogi, that I really felt I was sitting in complete isolation on a solitary peak of Mount Kailasa. I was detached, free from all worldliness, lost in a deep meditation, arising slowly to set the world to sleep and to take and absorb into myself all the suffering, tragedy and worry of the world. How could I convince an audience that I was a God unless I had bewitched and enchanted myself? As Arnold Haskell, the critic, says: "You convince me only because you yourself are filled with conviction." And to achieve that, what a lot of endless work and study, suffering and jealousy, it had cost me in my young life! And what a little I had really known, and how despondent it would make me, then as now, when I think of the little I was fortunate enough to learn from my masters, as compared to their vast oceans of knowledge.
For dancing is truly a visual 'rhythm of magic'. As in Yoga, the dancer approaches, becomes 'one with' the Divine. I have often felt myself enter another world. The magical sounds from the clash of the cymbals, the plaintive notes of the Veena and the throbbing golden beats of the Mridangam accompanying the songs of the Gods which the musicians sing, have all opened the ever present 'invisible dimension of another world.'
I remember the first time I danced on the black cylindrical marble floor of Belur, that ancient Hoysala monument built by a king and queen for both of them to pray, meditate and dance on during various temple rituals. What a trance I fell into! I was conscious of the music, and of the silent faces of the Indian spectators for a few brief moments, and then gradually they seemed to dissolve, and in their place I saw only mists and I was back at the very beginning of creation when man's body sang in an ecstatic trance though the mute language of the dance.
___________________
From Ram Gopal,
Rhythm in the Heavens,
Seeker and Warburg,
London 1957
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To whom the whole world is the movement of His body,
all music is His speech,
adorned with the jewels of the moon and stars in His hair,
deep in stilled meditation,
to this almighty Being Siva, I make my Obeisance.
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Ram Gopal with Retna
Mohini-Cartier Bresson
Ram Gopal as Siva in the
Temple of Belur
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Among the great dancers of India, Sonal Mansingh is special, as she had to overcome the sequels of a severe car accident to be able to resume her career as a top performer, displaying rare courage and determination. As she herself says, this experience "was much more than just an accident and the courage to come back." It brought among other things "a qualitative difference " to her way of dancing.
It is while travelling in Germany in the summer of 1974 that Sonal Mansingh had this fateful car accident. As a result, her twelfth vertebra, four ribs and a collarbone were fractured. She had to be put in a four-kilo cast from neck to hip.
Doctors were afraid that Sonal would not be able to dance again. Walk normally, yes, but dance as a top performer?
Dance was the main thing in her life. She had sacrificed a lot to become a dancer. She had done it against the will of her family. Life without dance seemed impossible.
She had to wait nearly five months in her cast till she could start re-education with a well-known chiropractor. At the beginning, every time Sonal moved, her muscles, inert from so many months of disuse, screamed in protest. The pain was sometimes so intense that she was close to fainting. Several times, she felt like giving up. But years of dancing had given her tremendous inner discipline. She persevered, lured by the dream of dancing again.
Six months after the accident, she was only back to the fist basic dance steps which she had learned as a child. She was in pain and feeling helpless ever so often, but she went on and on. Gradually, she was able to increase the number of hours of daily practice.
On April 20 1975, nine months after her accident, she gave her first performance in Bombay's Rang Bhavan. There was an atmosphere of great anticipation as everyone present in the
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audience knew what had happened. According to eyewitnesses, it was perhaps her greatest performance, as she had deliberately chosen the most difficult compositions. She danced for two and half hours and, at the end of it, she stood before a public in raptures, tears in her eyes, delighted to have been able to find her self again.
We felt very happy and privileged to meet Sonal Mansingh and ask her to share with us her deep thoughts about dance and the human body. Sonal Mansingh received the Padmavibhusan Award in 2003.
Q: What is your relationship with Indian dance ?
Sonal: The answer would have been different at different times of my life. My first memories are when I was about 3 years old. We I were into dance even then, as children are with parents who are interested in arts. The children develop that interest, teachers are engaged, there are special occasions where dance, music are part of the festivities. All that is in my memory. The formal training began when I was 7 years old. I am told by my teachers and parents that I had always shown a great inclination towards dance. We were also taught classical vocal music and sitar. My sister was born for music. I found reasons not to be present at all the tutorials of music — maybe a stomach ache or a faint.... But for dance, I was more than ready before time and always practising a lot. My interest grew into a passion — what people now call "passion". At that time I did not know it was a passion because, in India especially, we do not verbalize too much. Giving names to every shade of feeling is a very recent phenomenon. It didn't happen when I was young. I only knew that dance would give me such intense joy — it just burst out from me. So, at different stages of my life, dance acquired a different importance with different hues and shades.
As of now, asking what dance means to me, or what is my inner relationship to dance — it's like asking what breathing means to me.
Q: What are the qualities of body, heart and mind an Indian dancer should have ?
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S: I think that the qualities of heart and mind are the same for every dancer. Open mind, deep humility, and determination to work hard. Also an attitude of learning at all times, and toughness of spirit. Those qualities and perhaps many more must belong to the aspirant dancer.
Q: Could you say something about the relationship between dance and the body, your body?
S: Dance is such a physical art, and the first layer of that art is the body. The first tenet or principle in India has always been that body is the temple, and body is beautiful, and body has to be cherished and therefore nourished, body is to be worshipped. And as a result you see all these sculptures. So body is beautiful, body is the instrument through which I realize dance.
The space within the body is sacred like the sanctum of a temple from which emanates the dance. But to realize that emanation, the body is the instrument. And the dimensions of space can be shown by nothing else than the body. Here is the space, all this empty area around is space, and if I decorate it, I design it, otherwise there is nothing. So to define space you need the body, that's what the dancer is doing.
Q: How are the grace and lightness of the dance reflected in life?
S: I read somewhere that the queens of England were taught the regal walk by placing the Encyclopaedia Britannica on their heads! And if you have seen the countryside in India, in Rajasthan and Orissa particularly, the women still wear heavy silver jewellery and carry water pots, and you see the freedom of their movements and the grace. So what I mean to say is that in life the more there are obstacles in your path, the greater becomes the determination to overcome them. I think the interrelationship of heaviness and lightness,
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light and shadow, is very real — unless you have known one you can't know the other. In Odissi dance, for example, the silver jewellery alone weights three or four kilos, and of course there are also the bells.... and then, nevertheless, for two hours or more, we are really like butterflies and birds.
Q: Yes, in the Indian village you feel you see both the queen and the servant together.
S: Absolutely. The queen and servant all rolled into one. But as they say, if you have not seen the valley you cannot see the mountain. It is so true, so true.
Q: What about a dancer's training ?
S: It begins with the body, with an understanding of the body, of the power of the body, what it is capable of. So training is really about stretching the body like elastic, always doing a little more, as far as you want it to go.
Q: Should students train in many forms of Indian dance, or only one or a few?
S: Actually all forms of Indian dance have an inner connection I because they are based on the same aesthetic values and the same Indian sensitivity, legends, mythology and philosophical concepts. But there are some forms, like Bharatnatyam and Kuchipudi for example, or Odissi, which have a kind of family resemblance and which may be learned together. I think it would be inadvisable to learn together forms as diverse as Manipuri and Bharatnatyam, Kathak and Bharatnatyam, or Kathak and Kuchipudi. They bring into focus different techniques of using the body, different understandings of dance and its relationship to music. One has to consider the kind of music that is used, the kind of costumes, the kind of local culture, the streams that sustain each form of dance. Because I've danced them both, I know that Odissi and Bharatnatyam are different but they are like two sisters, so they are complementary to each other. They both started as temple dances and have similar histories, come from parallel streams. I wouldn't dare touch
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Kathak or Manipuri because that would create a conflict in the body.
To take another example, now women are also learning Kathakali. The physical discipline is different, the demands made on the body are different from those from Bharatnatyam. The Kerala customs which are woven into Kathakali are different. The language is Malayalam. The costumes are part and parcel of Kerala.
The most different dance is Manipuri : indigenous Manipuri is so alien to us. The Manipuri language is not understood by most of us because it belongs to the Mongoloid languages. Their ancestral worship, worship of natural phenomena, the divination of the spirits, are all woven into the indigenous Manipuri dance. It is nowhere existent in Bharatnatyam or Odissi. Our gods Krishna or Devi or Ganesh or our legends about the mainland history are not known to them. The music sounds more like Chinese to our ears. Even if they would be singing the Gita Govinda in Sanskrit I might not understand.
Q: What about attempts to synthesize Western and Indian dance?
S: The way Western terms such as experimentation and innovation are used does not apply to Indian arts, because our understanding of it is very different. The word "amateur" does not exist in Indian art systems. There is no place for an amateur. Either you are a student or you are artist and the guru has said: Now go out. And then you are performing. There is no in-between. Either you are good or you are bad. You have quality or you are not there — there is nothing in-between, and there cannot be, because art is all about excellence. Knowledge is all about excellence.
About mixing Indian and Western forms, it's fine, as far as human relations are concerned, it's all right. But in art, particularly for an art form that has evolved from a particular soil and from a particular understanding of life, a particular philosophy of life, an art form that has taken centuries to come into being in a particular way, if you take a little bit out of this, and something out of that, and try to mix it — synthesize as they say — to me, it is a bit laughable. I personally do not enjoy that. I would like to see each form in its intensity and all its possibilities, depth, breadth, rather than trying to fuse. Try the depths, rather. That is entirely my personal choice. What people are trying to do is up to them, everybody has to do what they feel is right for them.
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Q: In Western dance, sometimes the body is almost distorted. Is that so in Indian dance ?
S: No. Indian dance is very different. I think we are two opposing poles aesthetically. You see, if the body is beautiful and you worship the body, then the body must retain its form and, within that form, stretch and do the necessary things. And then we work with space and with gravity, we don't try to defy it. Therefore our low stances. Of course there are also tall stances, dancing on toes is also there, but the basic understanding is with the earth. We are not Aries, we are Taurus. And the stretch is not trying to cover the whole space — the outermost stretch of the two arms plus a little more. With a good Indian dancer you see it happen, the inner space spilling out, not the other way around. The outer space becomes simply a small extension of the inner space. You can see that happen. Indian dance is like the filigree, and ballet is the framework and outer. Ours is framework and inner. So the whole understanding of the body changes. My chiropractor in Montreal who brought me back to dance has treated a number of ballet dancers, and he started telling them to learn Indian dance to understand what body was all about. Distortion is not natural. But again, there is no value judgement, it is what you want out of it. And what ballet dancers do with the body is breathtaking.
Q: What about facilities in India for students of dance?
S: We definitely need more facilities. We don't have facilities in the Western sense. We usually work out of our own homes, or even our garages as in my case. Infrastructure in the Western sense doesn't exist here because we don't have an impresario system; that has never been built into our system. It is usually the family which takes care. In my case, I'm alone. But you make a name, through hard work, by word-of mouth. Now we are at strange crossroads. India has opened so much to the outside world, dancers have come, our dancers have gone, festivals of various countries are being held here, ours being held there. We do think some of the good things of the West should be introduced here — a little bit more cohesion and organization would be useful.
Q: The feeling of Bhakti is an integral part of Indian dance.
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The Natya Saraswati, Halebid, Karnataka (photo; Olivier Barot)
How is this part of a dancer's training?
S: Bhakti is interwoven into the fabric of Indian dance. The guru shishya relationship, the way we learn dance is one aspect of Bhakti. Then the content of the dance usually involves stories with incidents and themes which express bhakti. Bhakti in its truest sense is interwoven in our daily lives. It is not just a folding of hands and rolling of eyes or prostrating or showing reverence. Bhakti means a deep reverence for all things. In my interaction with my servants, in the way I pick up a flower, the way I sit down to think — a deep reverence for every activity connected to living, to life. Translated into dance, that is why we first come and touch the stage and beg forgiveness from it. The stage is an inanimate thing as far as everybody else is concerned — it may be cement, it may be wood or stone. What's then the point of begging forgiveness? It is because there is an inner relationship with the area and e stage which provides the bhumi, which provides the vibrations and support from which dance springs; that is Bhakti, in the truest sense. Of course there are different levels of Bhakti, spiritual, philosophical, but
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it's all interwoven in one process of understanding. Shiva or Ganesh or Devi, all become aspects of that Bhakti. When we bow to the audience, this is also a manifestation of Bhakti.
Q: What can you tell us about this relationship of student and guru in Indian dance which is so different from the relationship of a Western dancer to the teacher?
S: The word "guru" has been so misunderstood and misused. A guru really means, in the literal sense, somebody vast, deep, magnanimous, all encompassing. The opposite is "laghu": narrow, small, confining, constricting. This word guru has to be understood if you want to really understand the word shishya: to learn, to seek knowledge. It is truly like somebody wanting to drink from a great big vessel or from a great big ocean or lake. So I, who want to drink, is shishya and that, from which I want to drink, is guru. As now we have a lot of teachers who are not gurus, the word cannot be applied to everybody. The ideal guru fulfills all the needs, I mean like parental care and affection, and also friend and guide, and he does it with perfection, love and concern but also with due punishment — it's all interwoven. You seldom hear a word of praise from the guru, you seldom hear long instructions, it's just done through the eyes, through facial expressions... It is immediately understood. The attributes of the guru are described in our old texts, as well as the attributes of the shishya. Not everybody used to be accepted as a disciple. In ancient times, of course, money wasn't accepted. I will quote a sloka for you that gives the attributes of a seeker, a disciple :
Kaakasnaanam bakadhyaanam
Shwaananidra tathaiva cha,
Alpaahaari, griha-tyaagi
ityeva vidyaarthi pancha-lakshanam.
A crow's bath is quick dip in the puddle of water. Likewise, an ideal knowledge-seeker (disciple) does not spend unduly long time in bathing or beautifying himself. His concentration is total, just like an egret looking for a fish while standing on one leg in water. A dog, even while seemingly asleep, is nevertheless alert and quick to respond
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to slightest happening. Such should be the quick-silver state of consciousness of the student who is alert to every inflection in voice, every gesture of the guru.
Q: It is said that all the basic motives of Indian culture are designed to express and manifest immortality. Can you comment?
S: I would word it in a slightly different way: it is about transcending mortality. But you are absolutely right, that is what we call ambrosia, amrita: that which does not die is ananda, the primal joy, the elixir of immortality that we drink from the cup of dance. Dance or such activities provide us with that elixir, even if momentarily, which makes you feel that for the time being you have transcended your immediate surroundings, your mundane preoccupations, your concern with being in this human body. That happens I think in Western dance too — the leaps and jumps are all designed to defy what a normal human being can do, in other words, that is trying to transcend the mortal effort, isn't it? All arts have somewhere this seed of immortality.
Dance in India has one great advantage — dance and music are inseparable. And to be a really good dancer I have to know music, preferably I must be able to sing and know the whole science of music
Nataraj, Gangaikondacholapuram (photo: Olivier Barot)
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— the structures, the various ragas and what they signify, the moods they create, so many things. I have learned music for fourteen years and it helps. In India particularly there is dance music. And the music has of course echoes, you can sit with your eyes shut and absorb the music. But in dance the eyes have to be wide open, and the ears. With music it's not even necessary to exercise your mind, while in dance all your faculties, even the on-lookers' faculties have to be alive, other wise you don't get the essence of dance. Therefore, it is called the highest yoga; the highest form of yoga in India is Indian dance, not the yogi's, the Indian dancers' yoga. Shiva in his Nataraja form is the supreme yogi. All my faculties have to be focused totally like a laser beam. And that laser beam slices through your indifference, your moods, your mundane existence.
Q: You had a terrible accident, which could have jeopardized your career. Can you tell us something about this experience?
S: Yes, I can try to say. What it did to me. I wouldn't wish that everybody should have to go through such an experience, but it's like... you blow the dust off your being, and then things begin to shine. It did that to me. The realization that really life is nothing was very stark and very cruel and very upsetting at that time, life is nothing in the sense that it is there, and then it's not there the next moment. We read about it, but when it happens... life is really like a bubble... gone! You're dancing, this, that, and the next second you are there like a little worm, a crushed worm. That was something! When you come back to life and dance, Bhakti has got to be there whether I consciously put it or not. Then the great questions arise: why did it happen to me, why me, and how do I come back and is it worth it? People said you'll never walk again, or you may walk again in two years but not properly... Is life worth living without dance? Is dance all that life is about? So many new dimensions to yourself! And then that same dance becomes the mount Meru, the axis that stabilizes your life, your psyche; it's the crutch on which you get up, it's the life force. It was much more than just an accident and the courage to come back.
Q: There must have been a difference between your dance before and after.
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S: Oh, a qualitative difference! It was obvious to even the least sensitive person. People even commented on that, that at first you were young and beautiful and talented, afterwards you were committed, warm, giving, generous, all the time communicating and pulsating. But as I said, I wouldn't wish it to every dancer! It was like a risk, an involuntary risk. But then there are the risks you take voluntarily, not knowing what will happen. And for that we have a beautiful saying:
Jin khoja tin paiyan gahare pani
paith. Mein bauri dooban dari,
rahi kinaare baith
The ancestors have said that if you want to get something you have to jump into deep waters. Those who seek, they get, and for that you have to get into deep waters, and I the foolish one was afraid of drowning and all my life I just kept sitting on the banks.
So the element of risk, even consciously, has to be there. When I opted for dance and dance alone, it was a real life situation. My family said (way back in the 60's), "You'll regret it. You'll never make any thing good out of your life. You'll give the family a bad name. You'll have no money. Nobody will marry you!" this, that. Alright, the social circumstances were not the best. Even today not many families want their children to become dancers. Dance plus computer, dance plus job, dance plus marriage, dance plus, yes! But dance alone! No!
I feel that, if you would have to sum up in one word Indian aesthetics, Indian art forms, and the Indian concept of life, this word is ananda. Ananda is the key to understanding India. And that is why so many people don't understand: with so much poverty, how come people are smiling?
I wanted to say something about a certain attitude in life which I call: "Cerebral". One of my ex-husbands is German, one of the leading lights of German culture... He is one of the great votaries for this fusion of East and West, experimentations, new themes, etc. He kept saying, at is this, all the time, gods and goddesses! Evolve something new!" Once he said to me in an open seminar, "Where in your Indian dance can you reflect the nuclear holocaust? Or the agonies we are going through in our times. You are still in your own little world of kings and queens and gods and goddesses." I could only tell him that
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such a cerebral approach is not at the centre of the Indian understanding of life. This life transcends all such different labels; life is a much greater force. And in understanding life, let's not try to only understand mishaps or sad events. Life is also happiness. So why only catch hold of the darker side and try to celebrate that only and try to emphasize that only, and reflect it in your art? Why not look at life in its totality? (that is, if you can, because for that you need a very great understanding). To illustrate what I meant, I told him about a real life incident that happened to me in Kampuchea (Cambodia). In 1983 I was on a south-east Asian tour and my last stop was Kampuchea. At that time Kampuchea was not open really. I believe mine was the first foreign troupe to be received in Kampuchea since 1978. It happened because I had put a condition to the Indian Government that I would accept the tour in the other countries only if Kampuchea was also included. I was four days in Cambodia. We gave three performances. A visit to Angkor Wat was also thrown in. Angkor Wat had been closed to the world and a special plane had to be arranged for me and my troupe and an army convoy... Bullet marks on the temple, Buddha heads severed... It was just... those apsaras, oh my god, breathtaking! The next day we were leaving and before that, in the morning, we were invited to see the new Kampuchean national ballet which had been put together just a few months before. It was by the river Mekong and in the old palace, on an open verandah. A huge verandah, chandeliers, mosaic floor, carved pillars... About eighty children from the ages of 5 to about 20, boys and girls. They showed us their basic exercises, postures, like we do, stances... I think it's all translated from Sanskrit, the eyes and eyebrows and hand gestures. And then the older ones danced, the teenage girls. They had very coarse clothes, very coarse, you could see the texture. And tin ornaments, as if one of those tin boxes had been hammered into belts. And little blouses. They danced the apsara dance, about ten of them. And those upturned mouths, which we had seen the previous day at Angkor Wat, and the postures, the fluidity... I was absolutely entranced! And the boys did the Hanuman dance. They had torn sleeves, frayed collars, some were in shorts, some in tattered lungis. It went on for about two hours and we were in tears; it was so beautiful, so intense! At the end of it they brought flowers, and then the director, a little man, said, "Now we would like to introduce you to our teachers." There were two women and one man, all elderly. He said, "We'd like to introduce
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you to our teachers, three out of the hundred that we had..." And I said, "The children are just wonderful!" Then he says without moving a muscle, "They're all orphans, Madam." And immediately I under stood... The first day in Phnom Pen we had visited the famous muse um, the interrogation centre. So you could imagine that each of these children must have seen the parents being tortured and murdered and killed and whatever... But when they danced, tears of joy would flow. They looked like apsaras. I told this story to the participants of the seminar, and I said to my husband, "They should have really danced for us the dance of death and torture, according to your views."
The tragic vision actually destroys your deep sensitivity, and the human power of transformation. Take a child, you give him a toy, a wooden elephant, and the child imagines it to be a real thing and plays with it happily. This is what imagination does, what the power of trans formation does. That power is given to artists and we should use it to transform the audience's sorrow, or the audience's mood, and uplift them, take them to a higher plane. But if that is lost within me, what can I give?
_______________________
May 10, 1993
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This brief text is different from the others given in this Part as it is not centred around some great sportsman or performer. But it offers a glimpse of a different sort of excellence that is achieved by a thoughtful teacher in a small Japanese school, who wanted very much his pupils to experience harmony between their minds and bodies and, with this aim, developed a creative and joyful educational experiment.
After summer vacation was over, the second semester began, for in Japan the school year starts in April. In addition to the children in her own class, Totto-chan had made friends with all the older boys and girls, thanks to the various gatherings during summer vacation. And she grew to like Tomoe Gakuen even more.
Besides the fact that classes at Tomoe were different from those at ordinary schools, a great deal more time was devoted to music. There were all sorts of music lessons, which included a daily period of Eurhythmics — a special kind of rhythmic education devised by a Swiss music teacher and composer, Emile Jaques-Dalcroze. His studies first became known about 1904. His system was rapidly adopted all over Europe and America and training and research institutes sprang up everywhere. Here is the story of how Dalcroze's Eurhythmics came to be adopted at Tomoe.
Before starting Tomoe Gakuen, the headmaster, Sosaku Kobayashi, went to Europe to see how children were being educated abroad. He visited a great many elementary schools and talked to educators. In Paris, he met Dalcroze, a fine composer as well as an educator.
Dalcroze had spent a long time wondering how children could be taught to hear and feel music in their minds rather than just with their ears; how to make them feel music as a thing of movement rather than a dull, lifeless subject; how to awaken a child's sensitivity.
Eventually, after watching the way children jumped and skipped
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and romped about, he hit on the idea of creating rhythmic exercises, which he called Eurhythmics.
Kobayashi attended the Dalcroze school in Paris for over a year and learned this system thoroughly. Many Japanese have been influenced by Dalcroze — the composer Koscak Yamada; the originator of modern dance in Japan, Baku Ishii; the Kabuki actor Ichikawa Sadanji II; the modern drama pioneer Kaoru Osannai; the dancer Michio Ito. All of these people felt that Dalcroze's teachings were fundamental to many of the arts. But Sosaku Kobayashi was the first to apply it to elementary education in Japan.
If you asked him what Eurhythmics was, he would reply, "It's a sport that refines the body's mechanism; a sport that teaches the mind how to use and control the body; a sport that enables the body and mind to understand rhythm. Practicing Eurhythmics makes the personality rhythmical. And a rhythmical personality is beautiful and strong, conforming to and obeying the laws of nature."
Totto-chan's classes began with training the body to understand rhythm. The headmaster would play the piano on the small stage in the Assembly Hall and the children, wherever they stood, would start walking in time to the music. They could walk in whatever manner they liked, except that it wasn't good to bump into others, so they tended to go in the same circular direction. If they thought the music was in two beat time, they would wave their arms up and down, like a conductor, as they walked. As for their feet, they were not supposed to tramp heavily, but that didn't mean they were to walk with toes pointed either, as in ballet. They were told to walk completely relaxed, as if they were dragging their toes. The most important thing was naturalness, so they could walk in any way they felt was right. If the rhythm changed to three-beat time, they waved their arms accordingly and adjusted their pace to the tempo, walking faster or slower as required. They had to learn to raise and lower their arms to fit rhythms up to six-beat time. Four-beat time was simple enough: "Down, around you, out to the sides, and up." But when it came to five beats it was: "Down, around you, out in front, out to the sides, and up." While for six beats, the arms went: "Down, around you, out in front, around you again, out to the sides, and up."
So when the beat kept changing it was pretty difficult. What was even harder was when the headmaster would call out: "Even if I change my tempo on the piano don't you change until I tell you to!"
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Eurhythmic dances in the
Sri Aurobindo Ashram, 1960
Suppose they were walking in two-beat time and the music changed to three beats, the children had to keep-on walking duple time while hearing the triple rhythm. It was very hard, but the headmaster said it was to cultivate the children's powers of concentration.
Finally he would shout, "You can change now!"
With relief, the children would immediately change to the triple rhythm. But that was when they had to be especially alert. In the time it took to mentally abandon the two beats and get the message to their muscles to adapt to three beats, the music might suddenly change to five-beat time! At first, their arms and legs were all over the place and there would be groans of "Teacher, wait! wait!" But with practice, the movements became pleasant to do, and the children even thought up variations and enjoyed themselves. :
Usually each child moved individually, but sometimes a pair would decide to act in unison, holding hands when the rhythm was in two beat time; or they would try walking with their eyes closed. The only thing that was taboo was conversation.
Sometimes, when there was a Parent-Teacher Association meeting the mothers would peek in through the window. It was lovely to watch — each child moving arms and legs with ease, leaping about joyfully, in perfect time to the music.
Thus, the purpose of Eurhythmics was first to train both mind and body to be conscious of rhythm, thereby achieving harmony between the spirit and the flesh, and finally awakening the imagination and promoting creativity.
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The day she arrived at the school for the very first time, Totto-chan had looked at the name on the gate and asked Mother, "What does Tomoe mean?"
The tomoe is an ancient comma-shaped symbol, and for his school the headmaster had adopted the traditional emblem consisting of two tomoe — one black and one white — united to form a perfect circle.
This symbolized his aim for the children: body and mind equally developed and in perfect harmony.
The headmaster had included Eurhythmics in his school curriculum because he felt it was bound to have good results and help the children's personalities to grow naturally, without being affected by too much adult interference.
The headmaster deplored contemporary education, with its emphasis on the written word, which tended to atrophy a child's sensual perception of nature and intuitive receptiveness to the still small voice of God, which is inspiration.
It was the poet Basho who wrote:
Listen! a frog
Jumping into the silence
Of an ancient pond!
Yet the phenomenon of a frog jumping into a pond must have been seen by many others. Down through the ages and in the whole world, Watt and Newton cannot have been the only ones to notice the steam from a boiling kettle or observe an apple fall.
Having eyes, but not seeing beauty; having ears, but not hearing music; having minds, but not perceiving truth; having hearts that are never moved and therefore never set on fire. These are the things to fear, said the headmaster.
As for Totto-chan, as she leaped and ran about in her bare feet, like Isadora Duncan; she was tremendously happy and could hardly believe that this was part of going to school!
______________________________________
From Tetsuko Kuroyanagi, Totto-chan,
(translated from the Japanese, by Dorothy Britton)
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Painting:
Véronique
Nicolet,
Auroville
Profounder Aspects
With the increasing liberation of human spirit/Torn the clutches of narrow concepts and dogmas that refuse to consider the salutary influence that the ethical, aesthetic, and spiritual powers can exercise upon the development of the human body, there has come about in recent times a growing perception that the human body is not a tomb but a temple of the Spirit and that there is discernible in us a spiritual will which wants to manifest itself fully in the physical life. It is also being increasingly perceived that the physical body can, with the aid of spiritual capacities, attain to greater peaks of excellence and perfection. This perception came to be developed in its largest scope in the vision and works of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother who discovered and brought to perfection a new method of a synthesis of Yoga. In this synthesis, they came to underline certain profounder aspects of physical education, which have far-reaching implications for the contemporary problem of human evolution. We have, therefore, presented in this part a few selections from the writings of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother which have a direct bearing on the theme of physical education as a part of a larger scheme of integral education.
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Message
In their more superficial aspect they [sports and physical exercises] appear merely as games and amusements which people take up for entertainment or as a field for the outlet of the body's energy and natural instinct of activity or for a means of the development and maintenance of the health and strength of the body; but they are or can be much more than that: they are also fields for the development of habits, capacities and qualities which are greatly needed and of the utmost service to a people in war or in peace, and in its political and social activities, in most indeed of the provinces of a combined human endeavour. It is to this which we may call the national aspect of the subject that I would wish to give especial prominence.
In our own time these sports, games and athletics have assumed a place and command a general interest such as was seen only in earlier times in countries like Greece, Greece where all sides of human-activity were equally developed and the gymnasium, chariot-racing and other sports and athletics had the same importance on the physical side as on the mental side the Arts and poetry and the drama, and were especially stimulated and attended to by the civic authorities of the City State. It was Greece that made an institution of the Olympiad and the recent re establishment of the Olympiad as an international institution is a significant sign of the revival of the ancient spirit. This kind of interest has spread to a certain extent to our own country and India has begun to take a place in international contests such as the Olympiad. The newly founded State in liberated India is also beginning to be interested in developing all sides of the life of the nation and is likely to take an active part and a habit of direction in fields which were formerly left to private initiative. It is taking up, for instance, the question of the foundation and preservation of health and physical fitness in the nation and in the spreading of a general recognition of its importance. It is in this connection that the encouragement of sports and associations for athletics and all activities of this kind would be an incalculable assistance. A
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generalization of the habit of taking part in such exercises in childhood and youth and early manhood would help greatly towards the creation of physically fit and energetic people.
But of a higher import than the foundation, however necessary, of health, strength and fitness of the body is the development of discipline and morale and sound and strong character towards which these activities can help. There are many sports which are of the utmost value towards this end, because they help to form and even necessitate the qualities of courage, hardihood, energetic action and initiative or call for skill, steadiness of will or rapid decision and action, the perception of what is to be done in an emergency and dexterity in doing it. One development of the utmost value is the awakening of the essential and instinctive body consciousness which can see and do what is necessary without any indication from mental thought and which is equivalent in the body to swift insight in the mind and spontaneous and rapid decision in the will. One may add the formation of a capacity for harmonious and right movements of the body, especially in a combined action, economic of physical effort and discouraging waste of energy, which result from such exercises as marches or drill and which displace the loose and straggling, the inharmonious or disorderly or wasteful movements common to the untrained individual body. Another invaluable result of these activities is the growth of what has been called the sporting spirit. That includes good humour and tolerance and consideration for all, a right attitude and friendliness to competitors and rivals, self-control and scrupulous observance of the laws of the game, fair play and avoidance of the use of foul means, an equal acceptance of victory or defeat without bad humour, resentment or ill-will towards successful competitors, loyal acceptance of the decisions of the appoint ed judge, umpire or referee. These qualities have their value for life in general and not only for sport, but the help that sport can give to their development is direct and invaluable. If they could be made more common not only in the life of the individual but in the national life and in the international where at the present day the opposite tendencies have become too rampant, existence in this troubled world of ours would be smoother and might open to a greater chance of concord and amity of which it stands very much in need. More important still is the custom of discipline, obedience, order, habit of team-work, which certain games necessitate. For without them success is uncertain or impossible.
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Innumerable are the activities in life, especially in national life, in which leadership and obedience to leadership in combined action are necessary for success, victory in combat or fulfilment of a purpose. The role of the leader, the captain, the power and skill of his leadership, his ability to command the confidence and ready obedience of his followers is of the utmost importance in all kinds of combined action or enterprise; but few can develop these things without having learnt themselves to obey and to act as one mind or as one body with others. This strictness of training, this habit of discipline and obedience is not inconsistent with individual freedom; it is often the necessary condition for its right use, just as order is not inconsistent with liberty but rather the condition for the right use of liberty and even for its preservation and survival. In all kinds of concerted action this rule is indispensable; orchestration becomes necessary and there could be no success for an orchestra in which individual musicians played according to their own fancy and refused to follow the indications of the conductor. In spiritual things also the same rule holds; a sadhak who disregarded the guidance of the Guru and preferred the untrained inspirations of the novice could hardly escape the stumbles or even the disasters which so often lie thick around the path to spiritual realization. I need not enumerate the other benefits which can be drawn from the training that sport can give or dwell on their use in the national life; what I have said is sufficient. At any rate, in schools ... and in universities sports have now a recognized and indispensable place; for even a highest and completest education of the mind is not enough without the education of the body. Where the qualities I have enumerated are absent or insufficiently present, a strong individual will or a national will may build them up, but the aid given by sports to their development is direct and in no way negligible.... The nation which possesses them in the highest degree is likely to be the strongest for victory, success and greatness, but also for the contribution it can make towards the bringing about of unity and a more harmonious world order towards which we look as our hope for humanity's future.
Bulletin of Physical Education,
February 1949
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The Mother
Of all the domains of human consciousness, the physical is the one most completely governed by method, order, discipline, procedure. The lack of plasticity and receptivity in matter has to be replaced there by an organization of details, at once precise and comprehensive. In this organization one must not forget, however, that all the domains of the being are interdependent and interpenetrating. Yet, even if a mental or vital impulsion is to be expressed physically it must submit to an exact and precise procedure. That is why all education of the body, if it is to be effective, must be rigorous and detailed, foreseeing and methodical. That will be translated into habits: the body is a being of habits. But these should be controlled and disciplined, yet at the same time supple enough to adapt themselves to the circum stances and the needs of the growth and development of the being.
All education of the body should begin at the very birth and continue throughout life: it is never too soon to begin nor too late to continue.
The education of the body has three principal aspects:
(1) control and discipline of functions, (2) a total, methodical and harmonious development of all the parts and movements of the body and (3) rectification of defects and deformities, if there are any.
It may be said that from the very first days, almost even from the first hours, of his life the child should undergo the first part of the programme in the matter of food, sleep, evacuation, etc. If the child, from the very beginning of his existence, takes to good habits, that will save him a good deal of trouble and inconvenience all the rest of his life. And also those who have the charge to watch over him during his first years will find their task very much easier.
Naturally, this education, if it is to be rational, enlightened and effective, must be based upon a minimum knowledge of the human body, its structure and its functions. As the child grows, he must gradually acquire the habit of observing the functioning of his organs so that he may control them more and more, taking care that this functioning
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is normal and harmonious. In the matter of positions, postures and movements, bad habits are formed too early and too quickly that may have disastrous consequences for the whole life. Those who take the question of education seriously and wish to give their children all facilities to develop normally will easily find the necessary hints and instructions. The subject is being more and more carefully studied, and many books have appeared and are appearing which give all the information and guidance needed on the subject.
It is not possible for me to enter into details of the execution, for each problem is different from another and the solution should suit the individual case. The question of food has been studied by experts at length and with care; the dietary to help children in their growth is generally known and can be usefully followed. But it is very important to remember that the instinct of the body, so long as it remains intact, knows more than any theory. Thus, if-you wish that your children should develop normally, you must not force them to eat food for which they have a disgust; for often the body possesses a sure instinct as to what is harmful to it, unless the child is particularly capricious.
The body in its normal state, that is to say, if there is no intervention of mental notions or vital impulsions, knows also very well what is good and necessary for it; but this can happen effectively when the child has been taught with care and has learnt to distinguish desires . from needs. He must develop a taste for food that is simple and healthy, substantial and appetizing, without any useless complications. He must : avoid, in his daily food, all that merely stuffs and causes heaviness; particularly he must be taught to eat according to his hunger, neither more nor less, and not to make food an occasion to satisfy his greed and gluttony. From one's very childhood, one should know that one eats in order to give to the body strength and health, and not to enjoy the pleasures of the palate. The child should be given the food that suits his temperament, prepared with all care for hygiene and cleanliness, pleasant to the taste and yet very simple; and this food should be chosen and measured out according to the age of the child and his regular activities; it must contain all the chemical and dynamic elements that are necessary for the development and the balanced growth of all the parts of the body.
Since the child will be given only the food needed for maintaining health and supplying necessary energy, one must be very careful not to
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Mother giving a prize and her blessings in the Playground
use food as a means of coercion or punishment. The habit of telling a child: "You were not a good boy, you will not be given your dessert, etc." is totally disastrous. You create in this way in his little conscious ness the impression that food is given to him chiefly to satisfy his greed and not because it is indispensable for the good functioning of his body.
Another thing should be taught to a child from his early years: the taste for cleanliness and hygienic habits. But if you wish to form in the child this taste for cleanliness and respect for the rules of hygiene, you must take great care not to instil into him the fear of illness. Fear is the worst incentive for education and the surest way of attracting what is feared. Yet, while not fearing illness, one need have no inclination for it either. There is a current belief that brilliant minds have weak bodies. It is a delusion and has no basis. There was perhaps an epoch when a romantic and morbid taste for physical unbalance prevailed; but, fortunately, that tendency has disappeared. Nowadays a well-built, solid, muscular, strong and perfectly balanced body is appreciated at its true value.
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Mother playing tennis
In any case, children should be taught to have respect for health, admiration for a healthy man whose body knows how to repel attacks of ill ness. Often a child pre tends illness to escape a troublesome necessity, a work that does not interest him or even simply to move the heart of his parents and get them to satisfy some caprice. Children must also be taught, as early as possible, that this procedure is not worth the game and that they are not more interesting by being ill; rather the contrary. The weak have a tendency to believe that their weaknesses make them particularly interesting and to use this weakness and even their illness, if necessary, as means of attracting towards them the attention and sympathy of persons who are around them and live with them. On no account should this pernicious tendency be encouraged. Children should be taught that to be ill is a sign of failing and inferiority, not of a virtue or a sacrifice.
That is why it would be good for the child, as soon as he is able to make use of his limbs, to devote some time daily to developing methodically and normally all the parts of his body.
Every day some twenty or thirty minutes, preferably on wakingif possible, will suffice to assure the good functioning and balanced growth of his muscles, preventing at the same time stiffening of the joints and of the spine that comes about much earlier than it is supposed.In the general programme of education for children, sports and outdoor games should be given a fair place; that, more than all the medicines of the world, will assure them good health. An hour's moving about in the sun does more
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to cure weakness or anaemia than a whole armoury of tonics. My advice is that medicine should not be taken unless it is absolutely impossible to do otherwise; and this "absolutely impossible" must be absolutely strict. Although there are, in this programme of physical culture, certain well-known general lines as to how best to develop the human body, still if the method is to be fully effective, each case should be considered individually, if possible with the help of a competent person, otherwise by consulting books on the subject that have already been or are being published.
But in any case, a child, whatever may be his activities, should have a sufficient number of hours for sleep. This number will vary with age. In the cradle, the baby should sleep longer than it remains awake. The number of hours for sleep will diminish as the child grows. But till the adult age the number should not be less than eight hours and that in a quiet and well-ventilated place. The child should never be made to stay up uselessly. The hours before midnight are the best for resting the nerves. Even during the waking hours, relaxation is an indispensable thing for everyone who wishes to maintain the nervous balance. To know how to relax the muscles and the nerves is an art which should be taught to children even when very young. There are many parents who, on the contrary, force their children to constant activity. When the child remains quiet, they imagine he is ill. There are even parents who have the bad habit of making their child do household work at the expense of his rest and relaxation. Nothing is worse than that for a growing nervous system which cannot stand the tension of too continuous an effort or an activity imposed upon it and not freely chosen. I hold against all current ideas and prejudices that it is not fair to demand services from a child, as if it were his duty to serve his parents. The contrary would be more true: certainly it is natural that parents should serve their children, at least take great care of them. It is only if the child chooses freely to work for the family and does the work as a play that the thing is admissible. And even then, one must be careful that it diminishes in no way the hours of rest absolutely necessary for the body to function properly.
I said that even from a young, age children should be taught respect for physical health, strength and balance. The great importance of beauty must also be insisted upon. A young child should aspire for beauty, not for the sake of pleasing others or gaining fame, but for the
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Mother watching a pole vaulter
and waiting to note down
the results of the competition.
love of beauty itself: for beauty is the ideal which physical life has to realize. In every human being there is the possibility of establishing harmony among the different parts of the body and the different movements when (he body is in action. The human body that undergoes a rational method of physical culture from the beginning of its existence can realize its own harmony and thus be fit to express beauty. When we shall speak of the other aspects of an. integral education, we shall see what are the inner conditions to be fulfilled if this beauty is to be manifested one day.
Till now I have referred only to the education to be given to children: for, a good many bodily defects and malformations can be avoided by an enlightened physical education given at the proper time. But if, for some reason or other, this education has not been given during childhood and even in youth, it can begin at any age and followed throughout life. But the later one begins, the more one must be prepared to meet bad habits that have to be corrected, rigidities to be made supple, malformations to be rectified. And this preparatory work will need much patience and perseverance before one can start on a constructive programme for the harmonization of the form and its movements. But if you hold within yourself the living ideal of beauty that is to be realized, you are sure to reach the goal you aim at.
Extracts from The Mother, Physical Education
Bulletin of Physical Education, April 1951
Page 432
(Extracts from
"The Four Austerities and the Four Liberations")
To pursue an integral education that leads to the supramental realization a fourfold austerity is necessary and also a fourfold liberation.
Austerity is usually confused with mortification. When austerity is spoken of, one thinks of the discipline of the ascetic who seeks to avoid the arduous task of spiritualizing the physical, vital and mental life and therefore declares it incapable of transformation and casts it away with out pity as a useless burden, a bondage fettering all spiritual progress; in any case, it is considered as a thing that cannot be mended, a load that has to be borne more or less cheerfully until the time when Nature or the Divine Grace relieves you of it by death. At best life on earth is a field for progress and one should try to get the utmost profit out of it, all the sooner to reach that degree of perfection which will put an end to the trial by making it unnecessary.
For us the problem is quite different. Life on earth is not a passage nor a means merely; it must become, through transformation, a goal, a realization. When we speak of austerity, it is not out of contempt for the body, with a view to dissociating ourselves from it, but because of the need of self-control and self-mastery. For, there is an austerity which is far greater, more complete and more difficult that all the austerities of the ascetic: the austerity necessary for the integral transformation, the fourfold austerity which prepares the individual for the manifestation of the supramental truth. One can say, for example, that few austerities are so severe as those which physical culture demands 'or the perfection of the body. But of that we shall speak in due time.
Before I begin describing the four kinds of austerity required, I must clear up one question which is a source of much misunderstanding and confusion in the minds of most people: it is about ascetic practices which they mistake for spiritual discipline. Now, these practices consist
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in ill-treating the body so that one may, as it is said, free the spirit from it; they are, in fact, a sensual deformation of spiritual discipline; it is a kind of perverse need for suffering that drives the ascetic to self mortification. The Sadhu's "bed of nails" and the Christian anchorite's whip and sack-cloth are the results of a sadism, more or less veiled, unavowed and unavowable; it is an unhealthy seeking or a subconscient need for violent sensations. In reality, these things are very far from the spiritual life; for they are ugly and low, dark and diseased; spiritual life, on the contrary, is a life of light and balance, beauty and joy. They have been invented and extolled by a sort of mental and vital cruelty inflicted on the body. But cruelty, even with regard to one's own body, is none the less cruelty, and all cruelty is a sign of great unconsciousness. Unconscious natures need very strong sensations; for without that they feel nothing; and cruelty, being a form of sadism, brings very strong sensations. The avowed purpose of such practices is to abolish all sensation so that the body may no longer be an obstacle to one's flight towards the Spirit; the efficacy of such means is open to doubt. It is a well-known fact that if one wants quick progress one must not be afraid of difficulties; on the contrary, it is by choosing to do the difficult thing each time the occasion presents itself that one increases the will and strengthens the nerves. Indeed, it is much more difficult to lead a life of measure and balance, equanimity and serenity that to fight the abuses of pleasure and the obscuration they cause, by the abuses of asceticism and the disintegration they bring about. It is much more difficult to secure a harmonious and progressive growth in calmness and simplicity in one's physical being than to ill-treat it to the point of reducing it to nothing. It is much more difficult to live soberly and without desire than to deprive the body of nourishment and clean habits so indispensable to it, just to show off proudly one's abstinence. It is much more difficult again to avoid, surmount or conquer illness by an inner and outer harmony, purity and balance than to despise and ignore it, leaving it free do its work of ruin. And the most difficult thing of all is to maintain the consciousness always on the peak of its capacity and never allow the body to act under the influence of a lower impulse.
(...)The basic programme will be to build a body, beautiful in form, harmonious in posture, supple and agile in its movements, powerful in its activities and resistant in its health and organic function.
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To get these results it will be good, in a general way, to form habits and utilize them as a help in organizing the material life. For the body works more easily in a frame of regular routine. Yet one must know how not to become a slave to one's habits, however good they may be. The greatest suppleness must be maintained so that one may change one's habits each time it is necessary to do so.
One must build up nerves of steel in a system of elastic and strong muscles; so that one is capable of enduring anything whenever it is indispensable. But at the same time care must be taken not to ask of the body more than the strictly necessary amount of effort, the energy required for growth and progress, and shut out most strictly all that produces exhausting fatigue and leads in the end to degeneration and decomposition of the material elements.
Physical culture which aims at building a body capable of serving as a fit instrument for the higher consciousness demands very austere habits: a great regularity in sleep, food, physical exercises and in all activities. One should study scrupulously the needs of one's body — for these vary according to individuals — and then fix a general programme. Once the programme is fixed, one must stick to it rigorously with no fancifulness or slackness: none of those exceptions to the rule indulged in "just for once", but which are repeated often — for, when you yield to temptation even "just for once", you lessen the resistance of your will and open the door to each and every defeat. You must put a bar to all weakness; none of the nightly escapades from which you come back totally broken, no feasting and glutting which disturb the normal working of the stomach, no distraction, dissipation or merry making that only waste energy and leave you too lifeless to do the daily practice. One must go through the austerity of a wise and well-regulated life, concentrating the whole physical attention upon building a body as perfect as it is possible for it to become. To reach this ideal goal one must strictly shun all excess, all vice, small or big, one must deny one self the use of such slow poisons as tobacco, alcohol, etc. which men have the habit of developing into indispensable, needs that gradually demolish their will and memory. The all-absorbing interest that men, without exception, even the most intellectual, take in food, in its preparation and consumption, should be replaced by an almost chemical knowledge of the needs of the body and a wholly scientific system of austerity in the way of satisfying them. One must add to this austerity
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regarding food, another austerity, that of sleep. It does not mean that one should go without sleep, but that one must know how to sleep. Sleep must not be a fall into unconsciousness that makes the body heavy instead of refreshing it. Moderate food, abstention from all excess, by itself minimizes considerably the necessity of passing many hours in sleep. However, it is the quality of sleep more than its quantity that is important. If sleep is to bring you truly effective rest and repose, it would be good to take something before going to bed, a cup of milk or soup or fruit-juice, for instance. Light food gives a quiet sleep. In any case, one must abstain from too much food; for that makes sleep troubled and agitated with nightmares or otherwise makes it dense, heavy and dull. But the most important thing is to keep the mind clear, to quiet the feelings, calm the effervescence of desires and preoccupations accompanying them. If before retiring to bed one has talked much, held animated discussions or read something intensely interesting and exciting, then one had better take some time to rest before sleeping so that the mind's activities may be quieted and the brain not yield to disorderly movements while the physical limbs alone sleep. If you are given to meditation, you would do well to concentrate for a few minutes upon a high and restful idea, in an aspiration towards a greater and vaster consciousness. Your sleep will profit greatly by it and you will escape in a large measure the risk of falling into unconsciousness while asleep.
After the austerity of a night passed wholly in rest, in a calm and peaceful sleep, comes the austerity of a day organized with wisdom, its activities divided between wisely graded progressive exercises, required for the culture of the body and the kind of work you do. For both can and should form part of the physical Tapasya. With regard to exercises, each one should choose what suits best his body and, if possible, under the guidance of an expert on the subject who knows how to combine and grade the exercises for their maximum effect. No fancifulness should rule their choice or execution. You should not do this or that simply because it appears more easy or pleasant; you will make a change in your programme only when your trainer considers the change necessary. The body of each one, with regard to its perfection or simply improvement, is a problem to be solved and the solution demands much patience, perseverance and regularity. In spite of what men may think, the athlete's life is not a life of pleasure and distraction;
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it is a life, on the contrary, made up of well-regulated endeavour and austere habits for getting the desired result and leaves no room for use less and harmful fancies.
In work too there is an austerity; it consists in not having any preference and in doing with interest whatever one does. For the man who wishes to perfect himself, there is nothing like small or big work, important work or unimportant. All are equally useful to him who aspires for self-mastery and progress. It is said that you do well only what you do with interest. True, but what is more true is that one can learn to find interest in whatever one does, even the work that appears most insignificant. The secret of this attainment lies in the urge towards perfection. Whatever be the occupation or task that falls to your lot, do it with a will towards progress. Whatever you do must be done not only as well as you can but with an earnestness to do it better and better in a constant drive towards perfection. In this way all things without exception become interesting, from the most material labour to the most artistic and intellectual work. The scope for progress is infinite and one can be earnest in the smallest thing.
This takes us naturally to liberation in action; for in one's action one must be free from all social conventions, all moral prejudices. This is not to say that one should lead a life of licence and unrule. On the contrary, you submit here to a rule which is much more severe than all social rules, for it does not tolerate any hypocrisy, it demands perfect sincerity. All physical activities should be organized in such a way as to make the body grow in balance and strength and beauty. With this end in view one must abstain from all pleasure-seeking, including the sexual pleasure. For each sexual act is a step towards death. That is why from the very ancient times among all the most sacred and most secret schools, this was a prohibited act for every aspirant to immortality. It is always followed by a more or less long spell of inconscience that opens the door to all kinds of influences and brings about a fall in the consciousness. Indeed, one who wants to prepare for the supramental life should never allow his consciousness to slip down to dissipation and inconscience under the pretext of enjoyment or even rest and relaxation. The relaxation should be into force and light, not into obscurity and weakness. Continence therefore is the rule for all who aspire for progress. But especially for those who want to prepare themselves for the supramental manifestation, this continence must be replaced by
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total abstinence, gained not by coercion and suppression but by a kind of inner alchemy through which the energies usually used in the act of procreation are transmuted into energies for progress and integral transformation. It goes without saying that to get a full and truly beneficial result, all sex impulse and desire must be eliminated from the mental and vital consciousness as well as from the physical will. All transformation that is radical and durable proceeds from within outwards, the outward transformation being the normal and, so to say, the inevitable result of the inner.
A decisive choice has to be made between lending the body to Nature's ends in obedience to her demand to perpetuate the race as it is, and preparing this very body to become a step towards the creation of the new race. For the two cannot go together; at every minute you have to decide whether you wish to remain within the humanity of yesterday or belong to the supermanhood of tomorrow. You must refuse to be moulded according to life as it is and be successful in it, if you want to prepare for life as it will be and become an active and efficient member of it. You must deny yourself pleasures, if you wish to be open to the joy of living in integral beauty and harmony.
___________________________________________________
From The Mother, The Four Austerities and the Four Liberation
Bulletin of Physical Education
August 195
Page 438
Part VI
Courage of the Handicapped
Roosevelt at the famous Yalta conference in February 1945, two months
before his death. Churchill on the left, Stalin on the right.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt was elected four times as President of the United States of America. Nobody did it before him and nobody will in the future as now American presidents can only be elected twice. FDR., as he was popularly known, had the most eventful presidency. He took office at one of America s darkest hours, at the time of the great economic depression, when millions were without jobs, and was elected to pull the country out of the morass. But the most challenging task he had to face was the leadership of the free world during World War 11. He faced these most daunting tasks with a great deal of success and became a hero to millions. His face as may be seen on many photographs was a study in energy, exuding radiant vitality. Yet he was a cripple.
Such was the image of his personality that, although his lameness was a well-known fact, many people, when they met him for the first time, felt shocked to see his actual physical handicap. Indeed, Roosevelt took many precautions to minimise external manifestations of his lameness. Above all, he did not indulge in self-pity and felt commiseration abhorrent. His serenity and relaxed manners became legendary. That a man with such handicaps could convince his compatriots to give him the supreme power at the time of a most difficult crisis is nothing short of a miracle. FDR's story says a lot about the capacity of the spirit to command the body: what could have been a permanent diminution for a lesser man became for Roosevelt — probably — the springboard of an inner transformation that made him a better man than he would have been otherwise.
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Roosevelt's mother wanted him to accept his disability and retire from public life. His wife, Eleanor, on the other hand, felt that, despite his terrible handicap, he should fight to lead as normal as possible a life and, as he had already entered public life, to continue his political career. Fortunately for the world— and probably for Roosevelt himself — Eleanor prevailed on her mother-in-law. According to many close witnesses she managed to maintain a remarkable equanimity in front of the disaster that befell her family. She was a continuous source of strength for F.D.R. She never doubted his capacity to overcome. Such an attitude is the most precious support that people facing physical handicaps can get. The Roosevelts were an exceptional couple, no doubt, but the crucial role that the entourage can play to help overcoming a physical handicap can hardly be overestimated.
The struggle to surmount a serious handicap often reaps specific benefits. It is a well known fact that people develop compensating abilities. Blind people are known for their acute sense of hearing and smell. Some of them also develop a remarkable sensitivity of touch. People who have lost the use of some members [arms or legs] may become extremely clever in the use of other parts of their bodies. A case in point are artists learning to draw or paint with their mouths or their feet. Men who have lost the use of their legs often build a powerful upper body. This actually happened to Roosevelt who, according to Jack Dempsey, a famous heavyweight boxer, "had the most magnificent development of shoulder muscles he had ever seen." He made a few remarkable demonstrations of sheer robustness, like catching a hundred kilo plus shark after a two-hour fight, with no possible help of his paralyzed legs, an amazing feat of endurance and strength to any experienced fisher man. Besides these physical or more subtle enhancements of abilities, a lot is learned at the psychological level. A better intimate knowledge of oneself, a deeper sense of the relativity of things in life, a greater capacity of compassion and understanding are among the not so rare benefits derived from what at first may look as an unmitigated catastrophe.
Such ordeals are like test by fire. They force those persons who have to face them into an extreme situation where the best and the worst of their characters come to light. Often in a relatively short time, deep inner changes are provoked. There are naturally cases where the concerned persons become really victims and are unable to bear the crushing weight of the circumstances. But when they succeed in facing the
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ordeal, it is not rare that such individuals are able then to appreciate that their handicap led them to a deeper discovery of themselves and the world, in effect, and to some extent a blessing in disguise.
In a book centred around the question of proper education of the physical being, we thought it was important to contemplate on the les sons that can be drawn from dealing with human physical disabilities. They tell about the strength of the spirit in man, they tell about the body's adaptability. The thriving and gusto for life which is not so rare in severely handicapped persons can also lead to a deeper perception of the basic delight of living. On the other hand, if one sees what kind of forceful struggle some people have to put up in order to regain or maintain a fraction of what is normally a simple natural ability, one may realize the utter importance to preserve well and further develop these natural abilities of the body.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt is one of the most outstanding examples of victory over a severe debilitating condition, a victory that led him to admirable achievements. After seeing him at one political convention, Will Durant, then a journalist, described Roosevelt in the following terms:
"Here on the stage is Franklin Roosevelt, beyond comparison the finest man that has appeared at either convention.... A figure tall and proud even in suffering: a face of classic profile; pale with years of struggle against paralysis; a frame nervous and yet self-controlled with that tense, taut unity of spirit which lifts the complex soul above those whose calmness is only a stolidity; most obviously a gentleman and a scholar. A man softened and cleansed and illumined with pain..."
That was in 1928, seven years after he was first struck with poliomyelitis and became paralyzed. It was yet five years before he became president of the United States. Let us turn now to the gripping story of his illness and of his grim struggle to recover.
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1932: First electoral campaign
Roosevelt had a fairly wide though not unusual experience of illness before paralysis struck him. He was capable of feats of exertion over short periods that amazed his friends — for instance he could tire out a horse on rough mountain trails — but in a curious way his vitality was mercurial; he could vault over a row of chair at the San Francisco convention and play golf within two strokes of a course record, but in those days he was not what would be called a "strong" man. He was graceful rather than muscular; taut, not solid. His body was a sensitive mechanism, and photographs of the time give him a look almost fragile. He radiated energy, as a consumptive may do, but he sometimes burned himself out in doing so; time and again his resistance weakened, and he fell prey to minor illness.
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Catastrophe Strikes
On August 10,1921, Roosevelt took his wife and their sons for a sail on a small craft which he was teaching the boys how to handle. Returning to Campobello he saw a forest fire on the nearby shore; the whole family landed for the strenuous fun of fighting it. To cool off, he decided to take a swim in a nearby lake, Glen Severn, though he had been complaining for several days of feeling tired; then he and the children jog trotted the mile and a half home. Later FDR wanted another swim, and he jumped into the ocean from the beach. The Bay of Fundy is ice-cold even at this time of year. Back in the house again, he found that a batch of mail had arrived; he sat down in his wet bathing suit and went through it for half an hour. Thereupon he had a sudden chill, and Mrs. Roosevelt persuaded him to go to bed. (Interestingly enough he had had a chill the day before, as a result of slipping and falling overboard.)
Thus the attack began — though nobody can know when, where, or under what circumstances the polio virus first entered his system. The first intimation to FDR himself that something might be wrong with his legs was a tenderness in the forepart of the thighs.
The next day, August 11, he had a high temperature and acute pain in the left leg. Mrs. Roosevelt acted promptly; she sent the children away to a nearby camp, and summoned the nearest physician. Dr. E.H. Bennett of Lubec, Maine. Bennett got there by 10 A.M. He was puzzled. FDR could walk, but had severe pains throughout his back and legs. On August 12 difficulty in walking supervened, and Mrs. Roosevelt and Bennett thought they ought to consult another doctor. It happened that a famous Philadelphia diagnostician, Dr. W.W. Keen, was summering in the neighbourhood; he examined Roosevelt on the 13th and again the next day and decided "that a clot of blood from a sudden congestion has settled in the lower spinal cord temporarily removing the power to move though not to feel." Nobody thought then in terms of infantile paralysis. But Keen knew that this was a serious matter; he thought that recovery might "take some months." Roosevelt got worse in the next few days, not better. Keen .changed his mind, discarded the clot theory, and decided that FDR must have "a lesion" in the spinal cord. Also he sent Mrs. Roosevelt a bill for $600. By this time FDR's bladder and the rectal sphincter were paralyzed. Mrs. Roosevelt insisted that a specialist in poliomyelitis from Boston, Dr. Robert W. Lovett, be called in. Lovett saw FDR on August 21, made a correct
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diagnosis, and stopped the massages which Keen had ordered. Roosevelt was in the fiercest kind of pain during all of this, and was completely helpless. He had to be catheterized until September 8, and the paralysis spread to affect — temporarily — his arms and back as well as legs.
Sara Roosevelt was away in Europe, about to return home. The whole brunt fell on Eleanor. She did all the nursing. Her letters to the family during this period are models of clarity, courage, and cool restraint.
In New York Roosevelt was taken to the Presbyterian Hospital on Park Avenue, and one of Lovett's associates, Dr. George Draper, a brilliant young specialist who had known FDR well at school, became his doctor and took charge of the case. Through all the agony that followed, Draper and Mrs. Roosevelt were the closest allies; Draper, more than anybody except Eleanor and Howe, should have the credit for saving Roosevelt. Again we see the long and intricate chain of cause and effect that controls the seeming fortuitousness of human lives. Had not Draper, a friend, happened to be on hand, with exactly the right combination of technical skill and personal force, it is extremely doubtful if FDR would ever have recovered to the extent he did.
I have had access to the medical records of the Roosevelt case, including the hospital chart, none of which have ever been published before. His temperature was spotty, varying from slightly subnormal to 102.1; the pulse was between 60 and 100. The diagnosis was of acute; anterior poliomyelitis. On September 23 the record shows that "the patient still shows definite signs of general C.N.S. [Central Nervous System] prostration. This is very marked. Otherwise the situation is progressing favourably." An examination on October 2 showed that the fear of bladder or prostate infection had passed; the prostate was "not enlarged, practically symmetrical, with marked median furrow and prominent lateral lobes," and the patient was voiding "good amounts of urine without difficulty and without urgency." Medicaments included urotropin, pituitary extract, and 25 per cent adrenal residue. Much of this record is too technical for useful inclusion here. On the date of discharge, October 28, 1921, the record says, "Not improving."
Howe decided that the newspapers must be told something, and on September 16, the New York Times carried a front-page story with the following headline:
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F.D. ROOSEVELT ILL OF POLIOMYELITIS
Brought on Special Car from Campobello,
Bay of Fundy, to Hospital Here
Recovering, Doctor says
Patient Stricken by Infantile Paralysis
A Month Ago, and Use of Legs Affected
The first paragraph says that Roosevelt had lost the use of both legs below the knee "for more than a month." But one doctor is quoted as saying that "he definitely will not be crippled. No one need have any fear of permanent injury from this attack."
Dr. Lovett wrote Dr. Draper this hitherto unpublished letter:
With regard to Mr.. R. I was called to see him in Campobello. There was some uncertainty about the diagnosis, but I thought it perfectly clear so far as the physical findings were concerned and I never feel that the history is of much value anyway.
He had I thought some facial involvement, apparently no respiratory, but a weakness in the arms, not very severe and not grouped at all. There was some atrophy of the left thenar eminence.... There was a scattered weakness in the legs, most marked in the hips when I saw him, very few muscles were absent, and in those that were recovering there was a pretty fair degree of power at the end of two weeks. No deformities were present, and the general aspect of the thing was a mild, rather scattered attack without excessive tenderness, coming on promptly and not in a sneaking way, with spontaneous improvement beginning almost at once and progressing.
It seems to me that it was a mild case within the range of possible complete recovery. I told them very frankly that no one could tell where they stood, that the case was evidently not of the severest type, that complete recovery or partial recovery to any point was possible, that disability was not to be feared, and that the only out about it was the long continued character of the treatment. It is dangerous to speak from impressions at the end of the second week,
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but my feeling about him was that he was probably going to be a case where the conservation of what muscular power he has may be very important, and it looked to me as if some of the important muscles might be on the edge where they could be influenced either way — toward recovery, or turn into completely paralyzed muscles. I was as non-committal as I could be about who should conduct the treatment, and I asked them to put themselves in your hands and follow your advice.
But things were not to go as well as Lovett hoped. In fact Draper thought presently that FDR might never be able to sit up again, much less stand or walk. On September 24 he wrote Lovett the following letter, which has not been published before:
Just a line to report to you about Franklin R. I am much concerned at the very slow recovery both as regards the disappearance of pain, which is very generally present, and as to the recovery of even slight power to twitch the muscles. There is marked falling away of the muscle masses on either side of the spine in the lower lumbar region, likewise the buttocks. There is marked weakness of the right triceps; and an unusual amount of gross muscular twitching in the muscles of both forearms. He coordinates on the fine motions of his hands very well now so that he can sign his name and write a little better than before.
The lower extremities present a most depressing picture. There is a little motion in the long extensors of the toes of each foot, a little in the perinei of the right side, a little ability to twitch the bellies of the gastrocnemii, but not really extend the feet. There is little similar power in the left vastus, and on both sides similar voluntary twitches of the hamstring masses can be accomplished.
He is very cheerful and hopeful, and has made up his mind that he is going to go out of the hospital in the course of two or three weeks on crutches. What I fear more than any thing else is that we shall find a much more extensive
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involvement of the great back muscles than we have suspected and that when we attempt to sit him up he will be faced with the frightfully depressing knowledge that he cannot hold himself erect. It has occurred to me that it might be possible for you to devise some kind of support for him which we can put on while he is in bed, just preparatory to getting him up in a chair for the first time, so that he will not realize too suddenly that his back will not hold him.
I feel so strongly ... that the psychological factor in his management is paramount. He has such courage, such ambition, and yet at the same time such an extraordinarily sensitive emotional mechanism that it will take all the skill which we can muster to lead him successfully to a recognition of what he really faces without crushing him. My thought was that as soon as the tenderness has left completely so that you could move him about as you please ... you would come to New York to see him. At present I feel that we should not get the greatest value from your presence because of the impossibility of manipulating him.
I have studiously refrained from examining his upper extremities because he believes them to be untouched by the disease. It is fortunate that one does not have much opportunity in the recumbent position in bed to call upon the deltoids or the triceps — the biceps are fortunately pretty good so that he is able to pull himself up by the strap over his head and so help himself to turn in bed. This of course gives him a great sense of satisfaction.
Lovett replied that he would of course come to New York at any time, and recommended immersion in strong saline baths and the "use of electric light." He predicted that the involvement in the arms would clear up, which indeed it eventually did.
In November Draper wrote to Dr. Bennett:
First of all, let me ask your forgiveness for having delayed so long in sending you any word about Franklin Roosevelt.
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He has done exceedingly well ever since his arrival, although his progress has been slow. There is still a little tenderness in the muscles and, of course, practically no return to power in any of the affected ones, but his general condition is very much better and he has come out of that state of nervous collapse in which all these cases find themselves for some little time after the acute attack. He is now at home and able to get about in a wheel chair into which he is partially lifted and partially swings him self by means of a strap and ring hung from the ceiling. He is cheerful and hopeful and his general morale is very high.
As soon as we can, we propose to get him on crutches with braces to make his legs rigid.
I am ordering sent to you one of the little books on poliomyelitis that I spoke to you about and likewise enclosing the two dollars which you so kindly provided for tipping the ambulance men.
During all this period Roosevelt of course suffered the most harrowing agonies, mental as well as physical. When did it first become unequivocally clear to him that there was no prospect that he would ever walk again? Was he told? Or did he guess it for himself? Did he ever know with full consciousness that his back and arms were in jeopardy too — that he might never be able to sit up again, never even regain the full use of his hands? Who broke it to him that leg braces would be necessary? Of course nature provides a cushion for shocks so grievous as these; the very fact of his complete nervous depression probably helped him, and mercifully he was under mild opiates a good part of the time.
There were excruciating ups and downs, as in all serious illnesses. On November 19-20 he had a mysterious relapse; his temperature went up to 101, and his eyes began to hurt. Momentarily it was even feared that, as if fate had not mutilated him enough, his eyesight might become affected. Later the tendons of the right knee tightened, bending the leg like a jack-knife, and both legs had to be put in plaster casts as a remedial measure. The pain of this was the worst in the whole experience. Day by day, for several weeks, a wedge was tapped into each cast,
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a little deeper each time, to force the legs to become unlocked. But two items of good news compensated for this torture. First, the arms began to recover. Second, the "great muscles of the back" that Draper was so worried about resumed their normal function. He could sit up!
His mother wanted him to come to Hyde Park immediately after his discharge from the hospital, but he and Eleanor insisted on going to the 65th Street house in town. In his later convalescence, of course, he did spend much time at Hyde Park. Mrs. Roosevelt has recorded the "somewhat acrimonious" disputes that attended the decision to stay in New York City. This is to understate. What really happened during these agonizing months was a battle to the finish between these two remarkable women for Franklin's soul. Harsh words were seldom spoken; the intensity burned beneath the surface; the struggle was fierce just the same. Sara wanted FDR to submit gracefully to the disaster, and live out the rest of his years in vegetative retirement as an invalid ed country squire; Eleanor wanted him to continue active participation in every realm of life so far as this would not impede his recovery. She would not give an inch to the illness. She thought in fact that active re entry into politics would assist him to get well. She was right, and in any case she won.
Anybody who has ever known and loved a person helplessly ill will understand the peculiarly harrowing nature of what Mrs. Roosevelt went through — the jagged alternations between hope and despair; the necessity of giving blind trust to a physician even when the physician, cruelly pressed, could scarcely trust himself; the fearsome responsibility involved; above all the unpredictable oscillations of mood in the patient himself, which had to be ministered to with the utmost firmness, subtlety, and tenderness. Only once, so far as is known, did Mrs. Roosevelt break down. The house was crowded to bursting, and she slept in a cot in one of the boy's rooms. FDR seemed no better, the worried children were on edge, and one day, while reading to the two youngest boys, she started to sob, and could not stop. Eventually, she records, she pulled herself together by going into an empty room in. Sara's house next door; it was the only time in her whole life she ever went to pieces. Of course she herself was enlarged and steeled by the very intensity of an experience so grievous, no less than was her husband. They both came through the ravaging horrors of the ordeal with their characters — far from being diminished — magnificently enhanced,
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The Beginnings Of Recovery
By the spring of 1922 FDR was substantially better, though he could not walk, and by early autumn, a year after the illness first struck, he was able to do some work, and to hobble around on crutches. That he was able to make such progress was a triumph of pure grit, the con quest of flesh by will and spirit.
Now we must go into quite explicit and painful detail, because no appreciation at all of Roosevelt's later life is possible without concrete realization of what he went through. Dr. Draper taught him to "walk." Actually, though he himself might have disputed this, he never truly walked again. From the moment the illness struck him, he was" a goner below the waist," as one of the doctors put it. The major leg muscles never came back. Nor could he even stand (unless supported by some one's arm) without a prop, and even with braces he was like a man on stilts, because, being unable to flex with his toes, he had no balance. The braces were heavy, cumbersome, and a perpetual nuisance to manipulate. He could not put them on or take them off himself, and he "hated and mistrusted them." Without braces his helplessness was almost complete. Until the end of his life, he could not rise from a chair or sit down, even with the braces on, without help or at the cost of the most strenuously fatiguing effort. To get up he would have to lift out one leg with a hand, snap the brace tight, do the same with the other leg, then, with his legs absolutely stiff, as stiff as the legs of a pair of dividers, push himself up from the arms of the chair by the sheer power of his arms, wriggle, hold himself completely rigid from shoulder to ankle, tilt forward and upward slowly, very slowly, and then hope not to tip too far and fall.
Louis A. Depew, who became Mrs. Sara Roosevelt's chauffeur in 1918 ... has recorded some details of the terrible months of trial and error during convalescence. It was Depew who brought FDR back to Hyde Park for the first time after the illness in April or May of 1922. A set of bars had been erected in the garden, about ten feet long and fixed in a round base; the lower bars were hip-high, the others higher. On these Roosevelt tried to walk, riding on his hands. Then a trapeze-like contraption was arranged above his bed, whereby the legs could be pulled up and down for exercise, as well as an exercise board, a traction frame, and a mechanism by which FDR could try to hoist himself alone out of the bed and into a wheel chair close by. (But the chair
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itself had to be held .) Sara got from Europe an electric tricycle which she thought might be useful, but it did not work and he tried it only once. Also when summer came he tried to swim, both at Vincent Astor's and in a small pool near his own house. He would crawl up to the side of the water, then slide in; Mr. Depew or somebody would stand on the edge, ready to haul him out. He would remember the Bay of Fundy and pant, "Water got me into this fix, water will get me out again!" These were, in a way, prophetic words.
For relaxation he liked to sit in an easy chair on the east porch with Louis Howe, making ship models. Sometimes he would be alone; he would drop a knife or tool, and then, if it fell any distance away, be unable to pick it up again. To sail the models, he would go rowing in the Hudson; that is, Howe would get in the bow of the boat, he in the stern, with Mr. Depew at me oars. He even continued teaching the boys how to swim, by sitting on the edge of a pool and holding out a long pole. He did a good deal of carpentry, and, lying on his back hour after hour, played with his stamps and started a catalogue of all his books. Early in 1923 he began to write a little; he started a History of the United States (the text of which may be found in the second volume of his letters) and his book on John Paul Jones. He refused to be down hearted, and never conceded that he would not be able to walk again.
The legend is that his morale, his spirit, were so good that he was never even irritable. Of course that is not true; he had to be fretful on occasion. Once or twice he lost his temper with Anna, whom he loved best; she would weep and, overcome by this frightful tragedy that had assaulted her father, rush wildly from the room. But on the whole he was indefatigably patient, indomitable, and serene. He made his own bed of Procrustes bearable. Above all he was never bored; at the very deepest moments of strain and irritation he could save himself by his own curiosity and technical interest in what was being done for his cure; even when the heavy casts were stretching his legs slowly and painfully into shape he was fascinated by every detail of the treatment. Mr. McGaughey, one of the Hyde Park servants, is willing to swear that he never once saw him angry, plaintive, or seriously discouraged.
A member of the family tells of one series of episodes almost too painful to be borne. FDR got a considerable amount of exercise by crawling. This man over forty who had been one of the most graceful, vital, and handsome youths of his generation spent hour after hour
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crawling over his library floor like a child. Then he determined to learn how to get upstairs by himself; day after day he would haul his dead weight up the stairs by the power of his hands and arms, step by step, slowly, doggedly; the sweat would pour off his face, and he would tremble with exhaustion. Moreover he insisted on doing this with members of the family or friends watching him, and he would talk all the time as he inched himself up little by little, talk, talk, and make people talk back. It was a kind of enormous spiritual catharsis — as if he had to do it, to prove his independence, and has to have the feat witnessed, to prove that it was nothing. Much of his energy went in the early days into experiments with such things as a kind of pincers on a stick, to reach for books, and a leaf-picker's device with which he could lift papers off the floor. Sometimes he would carry a book with his teeth. His wheel chairs were usually -small, so that they would fit the narrowish corridors both in New York and Hyde Park, cushionless, and armless; underneath the seat was a concealed ash tray on a swivel, so that he would not drop ashes on the floor. Big casters made them easy to steer. He seldom wheeled himself, but when he did he scooted from room to room at a considerable rate of speed.
Roosevelt had after his illness four means of locomotion: (a) he could walk on somebody's arm with the braces and a cane, (b) he could walk with braces and crutches, (c) the wheel chair, (d) he would be carried. He hated to be carried, and Louis Howe laid it down as an iron rule that he must never be carried in public. But in private he was carried, like an infant, thousands of times. For instance in later years, at dinner in the White House or elsewhere, he would usually be carried in to his place at the table before the company arrived. Often, however, he used the chair. His servants and helpers acquired a marvellous dexterity in manipulating the change from the wheel chair to another so quickly and unobtrusively that few people ever noticed.
He could get around fairly well by these means after a time, and went daily for a few hours to his office with the Fidelity and Deposit Company. Temporarily he gave up his work at law, however, because his firm was housed in a building with particularly steep steps; to negotiate them twice a day was too exhausting. His confidence was rising; he said he would return to public life as soon as he could throw the crutches away. In the spring of 1923 he took a long cruise in Florida waters on a houseboat, the Weona II; this gave him great encouragement.
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The next winter he took a similar cruise, with Missy LeHand and a group of friends, and he wrote his mother from Miami, "I took the motor boat to an inlet, fished, got out on the sandy beach, picnicked, swam, and lay in the sun for hours. I know it is doing the legs good, and though I have worn braces hardly at all, I get lots of exercise crawling around, and I know the muscles are better than ever before."
One of FDR's secretaries contributes this reminiscence. He was about to sign some checks in his capacity as head of the Woodrow Wilson Foundation and he said, "Wait a moment. I want to show you something." Then he proceeded to pick up one leg by the trouser crease and crossed it on the other one. "Now what do you think of that!" he exclaimed happily. Later she rode back to 65th street with him. "He asked me to sit still when the car arrived home. He got out of the car and moved on crutches up the ramp that had been laid down to the front door. Then he gave the crutches to the chauffeur, and, using the railing along the ramp as support, pulled himself to the door. It was something he had just mastered."
Roosevelt, with great detachment and objectivity, once wrote a very good account of his own illness. His advice to fellow sufferers from polio was to go in for gentle exercise, skin massage, sun-bathing, and swimming in warm water; and to avoid overexertion, cold, deep massage, and getting fat.
Miracle of Warm Springs
In the autumn of 1924 ... began the great adventure of Warm Springs. Here again we confront the extraordinary capriciousness of history; or perhaps it was determined by fate ten thousand years ago that (a) a dilapidated hotel with an adjacent warm pool should exist at Warm Springs, Georgia; (b) Dr. Lovett should have found that swimming in warm water helped some of his patients; (c) Roosevelt became a friend of a New York banker named George Foster Peabody; (d) Peabody bought the Warm Springs resort and leased it to a friend, Tom Loyless, a former editor of the Atlanta Constitution; (e). Loyless wrote Peabody that a Southern lad named Louis Joseph had been stricken by infantile Paralysis two years before and had benefited greatly by the Warm Springs water. Who was this boy Louis Joseph? What has ever happened to him? Every human life is somehow associated with every other human life. Not one person in twenty million has ever heard of
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Louis Joseph; yet, by this combinative play and thrust of circumstance, this inextricably conjoined and mysterious chain of events, he became, by the mere fact of his existence, a major factor in the Roosevelt story.
Peabody thought that Roosevelt might be interested in the Joseph case, and passed on what information he had. At first the water did the boy little good; then after a summer he was able to stand up in the pool; then a year later "he could walk on land with the aid of canes." At once Roosevelt, breaking everything else off, set out for Warm Springs to see what this miracle might mean.
The Warm Springs pool is fed by a subterranean spring which gives it a constant temperature of about 88 degrees; the water, full of mineral salts, is of exceptionally high specific gravity. Its peculiar property is that patients can stay in it for extended periods, up to two hours or even longer, without the enervation or fatigue that usually accompanies bathing in water at this temperature. Immersion in any water will help a paralytic to some extent because water removes the weight of gravity. If, in a polio patient, any musculature remains at all, or any vestige of the neuromuscular coordinating mechanism, some degree of rehabilitation is possible if the muscles are exercised in circumstances where the force of gravity does not operate. But the beneficent effects of the Warm Springs pool seemed to go far beyond this minimum.
Roosevelt stayed six weeks on his first visit, and made more progress than in the preceding three long years. "He felt life in his toes for the first time since August, 1921." Not only did he help himself; he helped other patients too, by working out a series of underwater exercises. A good deal of publicity, contrary to his wish, attended his first visit; when he returned the next spring a dozen crippled persons had arrived without warning or invitation and were waiting for him. This provoked something of a crisis in the affairs of the local hotel; the healthy visitors were afraid to mix with the invalids, for fear of "catching" polio. Roosevelt took this in hand, arranged for the paralysis sufferers (his "gang" as he expressed it) to eat at a separate table, and even saw to it that a new segregated pool was built. Promptly he became "Dr." Roosevelt and, in close cooperation with the local physician, took effective charge of the establishment. He has recorded his struggle teaching two very fat ladies to get their feet down to the bottom of the pool, for a special exercise he invented. " I would take one large knee of one of the ladies and I would force this large knee and leg down.... And then I
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would say, 'Have you got it?' and she would say, 'Yes' and I would say, 'Hold it, hold it'. Then I would reach up and get hold of the other knee very quickly, and start to put it down and then No.1 knee would pop up again.... But before I left...I could get both those knees down at the same time."
But Warm Springs was not the only therapy FDR tried. Only some one in the grip of an intolerable illness can know with what soaring hope, tempered with anguished scepticism, one clasps at every straw. In 1925 he heard of a neurologist named William MacDonald of Marion, Massachusetts, who had devised a "walking board" for polio patients; he spent two summers with Dr. MacDonald, trying to walk round and round on this apparatus. One incident of this period is described by Mrs. Charles H. Hamlin, a close family friend: "One night Franklin and Eleanor came to visit me in Mattapoisett. Two men carried him in to a seat at the dining room table. He told the men not to return until 9.30. When dinner was over. Franklin pushed back his chair and said, 'See me get into the next room.' He got down on the floor and went in on his hands and knees and got up into another chair himself." Dr. MacDonald had taught him how to perform this feat, so that he "would have a feeling of freedom to move if necessary."
But Warm Springs remained his chief hope. Not only did he return again and again (usually his only companions were Missy LeHand and a valet); he rented a house there, and eventually built one; it is striking that he should have named it the "Little White House," though his mother testifies that this was not because of any future "aspirations." Warm Springs became, in fact, his winter home. More and more he came to love the bland, soothing Georgia sun and the gentle quality of the countryside. Oddly enough Eleanor Roosevelt was somewhat lukewarm about all this. She wrote early in 1926:
...My only feeling is that Georgia is somewhat distant.... One cannot, it seems to me, have vital interests in widely divided places, but that may be because I am old and rather overwhelmed by what there is to do in one place and it wearies me to think of even undertaking to make new ties. Don't be discouraged by me; I have great confidence in your extraordinary interest and enthusiasm. It is Just that I couldn't do it....
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Roosevelt was utterly convinced by this time (he had twenty-three "patients" at Warm Springs by the spring of 1926) that the curative properties of the resort were all that he had hoped, and he determined to enlarge his activities and regularize them. He felt that an impartial medical board should go into the whole matter; such a board was set up, under the chief of orthopaedics of the New York State Board of Health, and it reported favourably. Thereupon FDR took the decisive step of buying the whole Warm Springs property, hotel, cottages, pools, and all, with 1,200 acres of land, for use as a hydrotherapeutic centre; the institution was incorporated as a non-profit enterprise known as the Georgia Warm Springs Foundation, and it has been functioning ever since. He himself put something like $200,000 into the enterprise, which was a substantial part of his total fortune.
Lifelong Toll and Tribute
It is time now to estimate some of the results of this extraordinary experience to Roosevelt. First, in the realm of the purely physical. Nobody with legs can easily appreciate what it is like to be without them. I do not mean in such obvious realms as that FDR could never take a hike, kick a football, dance, climb a fence, skate, or play with his toes in the sand. So long as he lived, he was never able to climb a stair more than two or three inches high, lean deeply to kiss a child, crouch to catch an object, scuff with his feet, squat on the grass, tap a foot, do a deep bend, or kneel in prayer. Beyond this were countless other deprivations and discomforts. Consider the thousands of times a day a man with normal legs and feet uses them instinctively, without thought: to hold balance in a veering automobile, to give emphasis while speaking, to brace the body in all manner of reflexes. All this — and much else — Roosevelt lost.
I do not even mention such items as that his physical movements were of necessity severely circumscribed; that special ramps and the like had to be set up whenever he travelled; that, by and large, he could not speak in halls where the platform was not easily accessible from street level; that the simple business of getting in and out of an auto mobile was an almost intolerable strain; that he could not completely dress or undress himself; that he wore a cape instead of an overcoat, and a sweater instead of a bathrobe, because they were easier to get into; that he could never fulfill one tenth or one twentieth of all manner
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of ideas that came to him. It was a pleasant notion that, when President, he should call on Mr. Justice Holmes. But just how he could be lugged up the narrow stairs in the Holmes dwelling had to be carefully planned out. It was imperative at the Atlantic Charter conference that he should visit Mr. Churchill on the Prince of Wales. But how to get him up the side of that battleship!
Hundreds of thousands of people saw Roosevelt wave or heard him say a few words from the observation car of his campaign train. The torture caused by these appearances, particularly toward the end, is seldom realized. Before each stop Pa Watson or Sam Rosenman would come into his compartment and say something like, "Mr. President, we'll be in Springfield in about ten minutes." FDR would put down what work he was doing, call for his valet, and his trousers would be taken off (sometimes he did this himself); then the braces were put on, and he locked and tested them, then, this accomplished, he got into his trousers again. During all this he talked incessantly. He would walk to the end of the car when the train eased to a stop, squeezing sideways down the aisle on the arm of a companion; then hold himself erect on the platform, smile, and say his few words or perhaps make a speech of some length: then be slowly turned around by whoever was helping him and return to his compartment where the process was duplicated in reverse (if you were one of those holding him you had to learn to let him down in his seat very carefully); he would whip off his trousers and unlock the braces with the greatest delight; then dress again and go back to work until it was time for the next stop.
Many people have watched him arrive somewhere for a ceremony. First, his legs would project from the automobile; second, he would snap them forward stiffly; third, he would lift himself out on his arms, then lean on whoever was helping him. During this, for a few seconds, his face would be absolutely grim and concentrated; then, becoming aware of the crowd, his features would automatically flash into a public smile.
If he were making a speech in a hall he had, to brace himself accurately on the lectern. This was always tested beforehand, to see if it would bear his weight.
He slipped, almost fell, or fell not more than five or six times in "lore than twenty years, a remarkable record. Once, crawling in his houseboat off Miami, he tore several leg ligaments in a bad fall. During
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the first presidential campaign, while making a speech in Georgia, he toppled over when the table against which he was leaning slipped. Members of his entourage quickly helped him to his feet; he kept on with his speech at the exact point where it had been broken off, and made no reference to the mishap; the audience cheered wildly. In Philadelphia four years later, a bolt in one of the braces became unlocked just before he was to address the Democratic convention, and he lost balance. The
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pages of his speech splashed to the floor, but Gus Gennerich, his body guard, and Mike Reilly caught him before he actually fell. They reached down and relocked the brace while Jim Parley and his son James closed in around him to keep the mishap from the eyes of the crowd. But there was a good deal of confusion and the President was badly shaken; his words to Reilly were a curt snap, "Clean me up!"
But the worst agony lay in subtler fields. For instance the President could never, except when he slept, be left alone; once he told Ambassador Winant that his utter lack of privacy was the hardest single thing he had to bear. Occasionally, by error, he was left alone. Once Frances Perkins was with him in the Oval Room just before he was going to bed; he rang, but unaccountably no one answered; finally he turned to Miss Perkins and said, "Please find Prettyman [the valet]; I am helpless with out him." Also it was difficult for him to dismiss a visitor who over stayed his time, since he could not employ such ordinary gestures as rising from the chair or leading the visitor to the door. Again, as I mentioned in a previous chapter, his immobility made it tedious, even arduous, to do routine business in a conference — he could not rise suddenly, move from chair to chair, talk standing, or otherwise do what every body else does all the time, to relax the mood of a gathering, stiffen an argument, or emphasize a point. Try sitting for four or five hours in serious conversation with an argumentative group without once moving from your chair.
Psychologically one can trace dozens of minor characteristics that developed as a result of the paralysis. He loved gossip so much because he himself could not get around; talk was an outlet for all his suppressed energy. He loved holding the tiller of a boat because this gave him a sense of controlling motion. He had the close consciousness of time, of the passage of time and the intervals in time, so characteristic of people who have had prolonged illnesses; for instance his meals had to be served on the split second. He had a very serious conception (no matter how much he dallied in conversation) of the difference between 7:29 and 7:30.
Another point is that — understandably — he was somewhat timid of minor illnesses; when he had a cold, he needed to be babied a good deal. He hated to be near sick people, except Howe and Hopkins.
Roosevelt's own attitude to his affliction, as this became cemented into his character during the years, was to disregard it completely so
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far as externals were concerned. He had the special type of courage of the cripple who will not admit that he is crippled; this was a kind of defense mechanism since, at all costs, he had to protect himself from the invasion of any doubt or underconfidence. Almost never did he refer to his disability; for instance his mother testifies that she never once heard him mention it, incredible as this may seem. The artist Walter Tittle quotes him with an offhand remark, "Oh, yes, I could walk with crutches then," but even such casual references were very rare. He never under any circumstances used the illness as a political weapon. One minor point is that, for years, he would not say the word "golf aloud, and nobody who knew him well ever talked about golf; it wounded him too deeply to think that he could never play again. He never returned to Campobello, much as he loved it, until 1933, because its associations were too painful. He wanted to discard utterly from his mind anything that had to do with the illness. He tried to seize every thing that was normal. Above all he wanted to live like a normal man.
Nor would he permit anybody else to be sorry for him or show pity; nothing irritated him so much as special solicitude from friends or visitors. "No sob stuff!" was his stem warning to reporters who saw him after the attack, and he once told a biographer, "It's ridiculous to tell me that a grown man cannot conquer a child's disease." Above all, he never traded on his affliction, no matter how it might, as Mr. Ickes once put it, be exhausting his emotional reserves. Even healthy presidents ask for sympathy on occasion; Roosevelt never did. His attitude was, "I'm on top, I need your help, let's work together."
FDR himself could ignore his illness; other people couldn't. Members of the family had little, if any, self-consciousness about his disability, if only because he had no self-consciousness himself. But outsiders seeing him and his methods of conveyance for the first time were almost always profoundly shocked; even hard-boiled newspaper men who knew that he could not walk as well as they knew their own names could never quite get over being startled when FDR was suddenly brought into a room. The shock was greater when he wheeled himself and, of course, was greatest of all when he was carried; he seemed, for one thing, very small. Beyond this it was impossible not to feel emotion at realizing tangibly that the President of the United Sates was powerless to move. Yet in a few seconds, so relaxed was Roosevelt himself, the feeling of disconcertment would pass away. One reason
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1941: a seemingly relaxed FDR has just signed the declaration of war.
why many visitors were so dumfounded was the voluntary conspiracy of silence about his illness that the newspapers maintained for many years. Caricatures never stressed his lameness; photographs were usually taken from the waist up; news stories seldom, if ever, mentioned that he was a cripple; and the fact that he used a wheel chair was never printed at all until the very end. In fact many people never even knew that he was paralyzed. During the 1930's when I lived in Europe I repeatedly met men in important positions of state who had no idea that the President was disabled.
Nobody but the most crassly callow visitors to Roosevelt ever made reference to his handicap. Madame Chiang Kai-Shek, however, once committed the gaffe of telling the President, when she was about to leave the room, not to bother to get up. He "thanked her for the compliment."
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Other Results of the Illness in Varying Fields
1. When he returned to public life he was sometimes forced to unnecessary exertion and he sometimes took unnecessary risks in order to prove that he was perfectly fit physically.
2. Probably the illness had something to do with turning him to the Left politically. A psychiatrist might say that his physical disability was displaced into an absorption with economic disability in others. He learned that there were inferiorities other than those purely physical.
3. An unfriendly critic, pursuing similar hypotheses, has suggest ed that Roosevelt's conquest of himself, through braces, led him to put braces on the economic life of the entire nation, and that he tolerated the atrophy of American "principles" even as he had to adjust him self to the atrophy of his own legs. The whole country became "paralyzed."
4. Without the slightest medical justification, scurrilous haters of FDR used the illness as the "basis" of a whispering campaign about his health in general. It was even charged on one unutterably weird and silly occasion that what he really had was a disease of the horse, equine encephalomyelitis.
5. Roosevelt's struggle with polio was that of a pioneer, and his intrepid example helped thousands of victims of the disease. Later, during the war, he was an inspiration to paraplegic cases in particular. He seemed to be a living symbol of the conquest of affliction.
6. His own recovery removed all traces of fear from his character, and helped induce his optimism. He learned to concentrate and con serve his energy. Above all the loss of his legs increased vastly his sensitiveness emotionally and intellectually.
7. Finally, he compensated for the fact of being paralyzed by an immense, overwhelming will to power. He, a cripple, would do what no other human being in the world had ever done, be President four times.
Parallels, If Any
The number of important personages in history who have had severe physical disadvantages is, of course, considerable. Most of these, it seems, are artists; it is as if the hair shirt of illness gives boundless stimulus to creative activity. But political figures have had some famous handicaps. Choosing in all fields one need only think of Milton, who was
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blind, Beethoven, who became deaf, or Lord Nelson, who, mutilated by wounds, had to fight pain all his life. Julius Caesar suffered from epilepsy, Alexander the Great was a drunkard, and Nietzsche died insane. Gibbon had a famous hydrocele, Marat suffered frightfully from a skin disease, and Charles V had gout, arteriosclerosis, and dropsy. Many eminent men had syphilis (Henry VIII, Benvenuto Cellini, Baudelaire), and sufferers from tuberculosis can be listed with out end — Voltaire, Kant, Keats, Dostoevsky, Moliere, Schiller, Descartes, Cardinal Manning, Spinoza, Cicero, St. Francis. But in the realm of physical deformity names are not so numerous. Several celebrated writers were eunuches or eunuchoid. Peter Stuyvesant lost a leg and buried it in the West Indies, Toulouse-Lautrec had abnormally short legs, and Talleyrand was lame. Goebbels had a clubfoot, and Kaiser Wilhelm a withered arm. Lord Halifax has a withered hand.
The closest analogy to Roosevelt in some respects, my friend Jay Alien suggests, is of all people St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order. Loyola was a brilliant and worldly youth, a page at court, an armed warrior in the service of the Duke of Najera, and a lively and successful lady's man. His birth was noble, and he was rich. His early life was one of ease and dissipation. Then in 1521, at the age of thirty, during the siege of Pamplona, a cannon shot smashed both his legs, and he became a cripple for life. During a prolonged and agonizing convalescence, during which he could not walk, he turned to literature and meditation, and gradually took on the characteristics which made him famous. He forswore carnal desires, prayed seven hours a day, scourged himself, and set out on his massive travels, lame. He taught himself Latin, became ordained as a priest in 1537, and promptly got into trouble with the high authorities of the Church for his independence of mind and vigour; then came the formation of the Society of Jesus, under his burning guidance. The analogies to Roosevelt, mutatis mutandis, are suggestive throughout the whole life span, since Loyola too was a propagandizer, a popularizer, a political leader, and a spiritual force almost beyond comprehension, whose impact jarred the world for years, and whose work lived after him.
Loyola aside, there are few close parallels. In fact so far as I know FDR is the only man in all history who could not walk who reached a commanding position in world affairs.
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The Realm of Compensation
Several consolations and compensations attended Roosevelt's affliction. For instance it is an extraordinary fact that, paradoxical as it may seem, the blight of illness made him robust.
FDR had always been somewhat given to illness and very thin; now all the energy of his body seemed to go into a prodigious development of the torso, neck and arms. His face had been sensitive and narrow, with some marks of weakness; now it broadened out. Almost overnight, the head became Herculean. A minor contrary point is that he lost two inches in height. Jack Dempsey once said that FDR had the most magnificent development of shoulder muscles he had ever seen; on one occasion — and with no power in his legs, remember — he landed a 237-pound shark after a two-hour fight. Ask any fisherman what that means.
There is a curious double paradox here. His illness made him robust, yes, and for many years he was one of the sturdiest and healthiest men alive. Yet something oddly perverse attends a man who, wonderfully healthy, cannot walk.
Other compensations were more orthodox. He always had a good excuse not to do thing that might bore him. He dropped out of society altogether and has time to work things out and evaluate; he discovered that what he previously thought was "thinking" had been merely "looking out of the window". He didn't have to exhaust himself on games, celebrations, and interminable public functions and private gatherings. Once he said to an ambassador, "How do you stand all the dinner par ties? — I'll bet my stomach is in better shape than yours!" Once he confided to his son James, "The reason I get so much done is that I don't have to waste time with my legs." He said to Bernard M. Baruch once, "I save a lot of energy. What does a fellow need legs for, if we have elevators?"
But the more important transformations occurred in the ripe realm of the spirit. Roosevelt learned what suffering was; he learned compassion. Just as the muscles of his chest acquired a superdevelopment, so did he grow colossally in such attributes as serenity and will. He could not balance on his legs; he did learn to balance with his mind. Maybe he couldn't walk; but his feet were certainly on the ground. He learned the need for courage, and hence could transmit courage to the nation. In some respects it might almost be said that polio was God's greatest
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gift to him. Through the fires of this ordeal he established a power over his own mind that he had never had before, and this gave him power over the minds of others. The supreme experience of his life was to beat Death off, and then conquer indomitably the wounding traces that Death left.
Before the illness, all his charm and accomplishment notwithstanding, Roosevelt had something of the lightweight in him; even friends like Henry Stimson called him "an untried rather flippant young man." (Of course, later, he was to have another teacher almost as Draconian as illness — the Presidency.) But many people will testify to the fact that until the middle 20's, they liked FDR very much but thought that he was nothing more than an attractive, somewhat spurious, and highly amiable young man — almost a glad-hander, a playboy. He had promise, yes, but no great stature. He had brilliance, yes, but it was superficial. They were stunned, two or three years later, to discover that the ribs underneath this affable exterior had become steel; that the tremendous struggle he survived had etched ineradicable lines of power in every aspect of his character.
One interesting result of all this was superconfidence. Because he had beaten his illness, Roosevelt thought that he could beat anything. "The guy," Harry Hopkins once told Raymond Swing, "never knows when he is licked," and Hopkins thought that this was his chief defect.
Illness Did Not Make Him President
Finally, one should reject the notion that it was primarily illness that made Frankin Roosevelt President. Obviously he must have had a good deal of character in the first place, not only to reach the stations in life that he did reach before illness struck him, but to have been able to get through the shattering ordeal of the attack itself. There are, after all, plenty of victims of infantile paralysis who never become great men. Once a friend asked Mrs. Roosevelt if she thought he would have been President if he-had not been ill. Her answer was, "He would certainly have been President, but a president of a different kind."
________________
From John Gunthere,
Roosevelt in Retrospect, A Profile in History,
Harper Collins Publishers, New York, 1950
Page 467
Roosevelt waves to supporters in 1920,
the year before he had polio.
FDR with a young girl at his
Hyde Park, New York, home.
Page 468
Life's Chronology of Franklin Delano Roosevelt
1882 Birth of Franklin Delano Roosevelt at Hyde Park, New York. 1900 Studies at Harvard University
1904 Law studies at New York City's Columbia University
1905 Marriage with Eleanor, a distant cousin, niece of Theodore Roosevelt
1910 Enter into the political arena. Elected as a Democrat to the New York State Senate
1912 Re-election. Appointed by Wilson as Assistant Secretary of the Navy
1920 Chosen as the running mate of presidential candidate James M.Cox. Defeat of their team
1921 Stricken by poliomyelitis
1924 Resumes his political career. (Beginning of treatment at Warm Springs, a Georgia summer resort)
1928 Elected Governor of New York
1930 Re-election to the Governorship
1932 Nominated Democratic Presidential Candidate
1932 (Nov. 9) Elected President of the United States. Beginning of a reform program known as the "New Deal"
1936 (Nov.) Re-election by the largest electoral margin in recent American history, 523 to 8.
1939 (Sept. 1) Germany invades Poland
1940 (Nov.) Re-elected President of the United States
1941 (Dec.7) Japanese attack on the American Naval base of Pearl Harbour. America enters the war
1944 (Nov.) Fourth re-election (1s1 American President ever to be elected four times)
1945 (Apr. 12) Death at Warm Springs from a massive cerebral haemorrhage
Page 469
The world of the blind is a mystery to us who see. In some old traditions, a blind person was sometimes cast in the role of a seer, as if his very blindness opened up the possibility of a deeper vision. It is also said that it is not rare for blind people to be joyful. There is a legend in an American Indian tradition of how a boy born blind learns to surmount his handicap to the point of riding fearlessly in a horse race. There is a holistic beauty in that legend and the depth of inspiration behind carries conviction.
Tell me the story again. Grandfather.
Tell me who I am.
I have told you many times. Boy
You know the story by heart.
Page 470
But it sounds better
when you tell it. Grandfather.
Then listen carefully.
This may be the last telling.
No, no. Grandfather.
There will never be a last time
Promise me that.
Promise me.
I promise you nothing, Boy.
I love you.
That is better than a promise.
And I love you. Grandfather,
but tell me the story again.
Please.
Once there was a boy child...
No, Grandfather.
Start at the beginning.
Start where the storm
was crying my name.
You know the story, Boy.
Tell it.
No, Grandfather, no.
Start, "It was a dark night...
It was a dark night
a strange night.
Your mother and father and I
were safe in the hogan...
Page 471
... and the sheep were safe
in the pen...
... when a wild storm
came out of the mountains...
... crying,
"Boy-eeeeeeeee! Boy-eeeeeeeee!"
...and your mother said,
"I hear it in the wounded wind.
A boy child will be born tonight."
Then what happened. Grandfather?
I rode up the canyon fast,
to bring the grandmother.
It is not a good sign
for a child to be born
without a grandmother's blessing.
Was the wind still calling for me,
Grandfather?
Yes, Boy, it was whipping up sand
as sharp as claws,
and crying like a bobcat,
Were you afraid. Grandfather?
I was much afraid
How much afraid?
Heart pounding afraid, Boy.
Page 472
Just as I was born...
tell me that part.
It was strange...strange.
Just as you came forth
and made your first cry,
the wind stopped howling
and the storm was over...
... and the night became as quiet
as soft falling snow...
...The grandmother took you up
in her arms, and said,
"He will walk in beauty...
to the east..."
"...to the west,
to the north, to the south,
he will walk in beauty..."
"...forever."
And I was born strong,
Wasn't I, Grandfather?
No, you were not strong.
You were sick and frail.
We thought you would die.
But 1 didn't die, did I?
Tell me about that, Grandfather.
All night you lay silent
with your eyes closed,
your breath too shallow,
too weak for crying...
Page 473
...and you carried me out
to see the morning, Grandfather,
but I did not open my eyes.
Tell me that part.
Two great blue horses
came galloping by...
... and they stopped, Grandfather!
They stopped and looked at me...
...and you raised your arms
to the great blue horses,
and I said,
"See how the horses speak to him.
They are his brothers from..."
"...from beyond the dark mountains.
This boy child will not die."
That is what you said,
isn't it, Grandfather?
Yes, Boy, that is what I said,
"This boy child will not die.
The great blue horses have given him
the strength to live."
And that is when you named me,
isn't it. Grandfather?
After you smiled your first smile
We had the naming ceremony.
All of the grandmothers
and grandfathers were there.
And you named me
Boy-Strength-of-Blue-Horses.
Page 474
It is a strong name.
Did I need a strong name,
All children need a strong name
to help them grow strong.
And I grew strong, didn't I?
Yes, Boy-Strength-of-Blue-Horses,
and each day
you are growing stronger.
You are 'learning to cross
the dark mountains.
I already have crossed
some of the dark mountains.
There will be more Boy.
Dark mountains
are always around us.
They have no beginnings and...
...they have no endings.
But we know they are there, Grandfather,
When we suddenly feel afraid.
Yes, Boy... afraid to do
what we have to do.
Will I always have to live in the dark?
Yes, Boy.
You were born with a dark curtain
in front of your eyes.
But there are many ways to see. Grandfather.
Page 475
Yes, Boy, You are learning
to see through your darkness
because you have
the strength of blue horses.
I see the horses with my hands,
Grandfather,
but I cannot see the blue.
What is blue?
You know morning. Boy.
Yes, I can feel morning.
Morning throws off
the blanket of night.
And you know sunrise.
Yes, I hear sunrise,
in the song of the birds.
And you know sky. Boy.
Yes, sky touches my face...
soft, like lambs' wool...
and I breathe its softness.
Blue is all of these.
Blue is the feeling
of a spring day beginning.
Try... try to see it. Boy.
Blue? ...blue?
Blue is the morning...
the sunrise...
the sky...
the song of the birds...
0, I see it!
Page 476
Blue/ Blue/
Blue is happiness, Grandfather!
I feel it...
in my heart!
There was a sweep of blue
in the rainbow, Boy,
that morning your horse was born.
0, tell me that part. Grandfather!
I could not see the rainbow
but I can still feel its happiness.
I awakened you, Boy,
during the night, remember,
just before the foal was born.
And you said to me,
"Come, Boy,
Circles is ready to foal.
The colt will be yours."
It was a long night of cold rain...
... and we put a blanket
over Circles, Grandfather,
to keep her warm.
As the sun
came through the clouds,
the foal was born...
...and a rainbow
danced across the sky.
It was a good sign. Boy.
And I named the little wet foal...
Rainbow!
Page 477
You have trained her well. Boy.
Rainbow is smart. Grandfather.
Like you.
She is good at remembering.
Rainbow is my eyes, Grandfather.
She takes me to the sheep,
wherever they are,
and when I am ready,
she finds the way home.
No one thought you could teach her
to race, Boy...
...but I did. Grandfather!
Every day, day after day,
we followed you along the trail...
And you let me hold the reins.
You traced the trails
in your mind, Boy,
both you and Rainbow.
Yes, Grandfather,
we learned the trails by heart...
up South Mountain to Granite Rock...
down the steep shortcut
to Meadow-of-Blue-Flowers...
then straight across the Red Flats
to Lightning-Split-Tree...
then down the Switchbacks
to the canyon trail...
and on around to the finish line.
I learned from Rainbow when to turn
by the pull of her neck
and by counting her gallops.
Page 478
Now tell me again about the
race. Grandfather.
It was a tribal day. Boy.
You and the other boys
were at the starting line...
but you pulled back.
I was afraid, Grandfather,
Until you called to me.
Tell me again what you said.
I said,
"Don't be afraid, Boy!
Trust your darkness!
Go like the wind!"
And I leaned forward
on Rainbow's neck.
I grabbed her mane tight,
and 1 said, "Go, Rainbow, go!"
I could feel the
pushing and crowding
and galloping thunder
all around me.
Rainbow and I
went twisting, turning,
galloping, galloping, galloping,
counting the gallops...
remembering the way...
And what did the people say. Grandfather?
They said,
"Who is that boy riding bareback...
racing the race with all of his heart?"
And you said,
"That is Boy-Strength-of-Blue-Horses...
Page 479
He and his horse are together like one."
Yes, Boy, that is what I said.
But I didn't win, Grandfather.
No, but you rode like the wind.
The wind is my friend, Grandfather.
It throws back my hair
and laughs in my face.
You see the wind better than I, Boy.
I finished the race, hot and dusty,
sweat dripping from my face...
And you were smiling, Boy!
I wasn't afraid, Grandfather.
I could see through the dark
every turn of the race.
Rainbow and I knew the way.
You were crossing dark mountains, Boy!
Tell me again what you told me then.
I like to hear it over and over.
"Boy-Strength-of-Blue-Horses,
You have raced darkness and won!
You now can see with your heart,
feel a part of all that surrounds you.
Your courage lights the way."
And what did the grandmothers say?
Page 480
You tell me, Boy.
I know you remember.
Yes, I remember, Grandfather.
"This boy walks in beauty.
His dreams are more beautiful
than rainbows and sunsets."
Now, Boy...
now that the story has been told again,
I will tie another knot
in the counting rope.
When the rope is filled with knots,
you will know the story by heart
and can tell it to yourself.
So that I will grow stronger, Grandfather?
Yes... stronger... strong enough
to cross the dark mountains.
I always feel strong
when you are with me. Grandfather.
I will not always be with you, Boy.
No, Grandfather,
don't ever leave me.
What will I do without you ?
You will never be alone, Boy.
My love, like the strength of blue
horses, will always surround you.
_____________________________________________
by Bill Martin Jr. and John Archambault, The Trumpet Club,
Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishers Inc,
666 5th Avenue, New York 10103
Page 481
When the great mountaineer George Mallory was asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, he gave the enigmatic reply: "Because it is there" — a line that, like its author, had passed beyond the realm of mountaineering history and into the realm of legend. Mallory, a type of unfulfilled genius by all early accounts, -was radically altered by his struggle with the great mountain — it gave him an over-riding goal in life and became the symbol for him of that which is most worthy of' attainment. Here is how he describes his first view of Everest:
At the end of the valley and above the glacier Everest rises not so much a peak as a prodigious mountain mass (...) We paused in sheer astonishment. In the back of my mind were a host of questions about it clamouring for answer. But the sight of it now banished every thought. We forgot the stony wastes and regrets for other beauties. We asked no questions and made no comment, but simply looked. (...) There is no complication for the eye. The highest of the world's great mountains, it seems, has to make but a single gesture of magnificence to be lord of all, vast in unchallenged and isolated supremacy. To the discerning eye other mountains are visible, giants between 23,000 and 26,000 feet high. Not one of their slenderer heads
Page 485
even reaches their chief's shoulder; beside Everest they escape notice — such is the pre-eminence of the greatest.
Mallory's determination bordering on obsession to reach Everest's summit, his tremendous courage and nearly superhuman endurance throughout two long expeditions, have made of Mallory an almost mythical figure in the annals of human adventure and achievement. Somewhere near the summit of the majestic giant Mallory's body lies. No one knows whether, in that final fateful attempt, he attained his goal. When last seen, he was already higher than any man had ever climbed. Then he disappeared into a mist of snow, on June 8, 1924.
"Because it is there"... The eternal thirst of the human spirit to'', reach to the highest drove scores of climbers to make the attempt afters 1924. Big international expeditions, eccentric soloists— again and' again the mountain resisted them all. Until, in May of 1953, a stub born, lanky Hew Zealander, Edmund Hillary, and his stocky, brave companion, the Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, planted the flags of Great Britain, Nepal and India on the earth's highest peak.
Nearly thirty years later, a young mountaineer from Italy's Tyrolean Alps gazed up at that same peak. By then Everest had been "conquered" by dozens of climbers, as if Tenzing's and Hillary's triumph had somehow opened the way, making it easier for the adventurers who followed. But in Reinhold Messner's view, that adventure was now threatening to become an industry. By the 1980's, several times each year, huge expeditions employing hundreds of porters and more and more sophisticated technology literally assaulted the mountain. (By 1993, 800 climbers had reached the summit, 80 in May 1993 alone.) In particular, Messner felt that the excessive use of oxygen had reduced the challenge to something akin to climbing a well-mapped and much lower peak. Moreover, the expeditions were leaving behind more and more debris — empty oxygen cylinders, old tents and climbing gear, discarded food packets — spoiling the pristine Himalayan slopes.
Messner loved the mountain whose name in Tibetan, Chomolungma, means "Goddess Mother of the World". He did not climb mountains, he said, "simply to vanquish their summits. 1 place myself voluntarily into dangerous situations to learn to face my own fears and doubts, my innermost feelings." And he wondered, "Is the world so constructed that Man can climb to its highest peak without mechanical aids ?
Page 486
The last picture of Mallory and Irvine three days before they disappeared
Mallory, a hero to Messner, had also opposed the use of oxygen as "a challenge to the human spirit and an attack by Science upon natural values." In 1978, Messner's determination to climb Everest "by fair means" would lead him to an exceptional achievement with one fellow climber: the first ascent of the mountain without the use of oxygen (something medical science said was "impossible"); and in 1980, Messner accomplished the first solo ascent, also without oxygen, by the seldom climbed northern route through Tibet, the route taken by Mallory.
In that same year, another adventurer looked not up but out, upon the wide open seas. To Steven Challahan the sea was the world's last great frontier where a man alone could test and expand his limits. Now Steven was about to attempt a trans-Atlantic crossing in a small sailing hip appropriately named Napoleon Solo. This was not an unheard-of feat, a few others had made similar crossings, but nonetheless a daunting one. "I was not interested in setting a record, " Steven wrote later. "For me, the crossing was more of an inner voyage and pilgrimage of sorts." Like all true adventurers, he was lured by the siren call of the
Page 487
unknown; and like all true adventures, his was married to the unexpected. Steven 's boat sinks, and he is lost at sea for seventy days it tiny rubber raft. His ordeal teaches him more than survival — it forces him to plumb the depths of his inner resources and shows him, through pain and beauty, the perfect harmony of Nature, a transparent mask] the face of God.
In earlier times, adventure was an aspect of life essential to survival. Human beings existed in an uncharted landscape that exact the utmost of their physical potentials and left little time for other pi suits. Yet even then, as the world's ancient mythology testifies, o ancestors' great heroes were those who voluntarily left the relative security of family and fireside and sought adventure: a dragon to sit a damsel to rescue, a holy grail... With the advent of "civilisation humanity has achieved a measure of physical ease and protects which has liberated us for new kinds of adventures — voyages of discovery in the mind and spirit. Yet there lingers in most of us a deep kind of nostalgia for empty horizons, untouched snowfields, the pathless woods. Perhaps it is the very participation of the body in the pursuit of ideal goals that makes such adventures so uniquely and intensely fulfilling.
Safe in our armchairs, we marvel at the courage of a Mallory, a Tenzing, a Messner or a Callahan. Reading of their exploits, we feel we have climbed and sailed and discovered along with them. Their hard-won achievements and magnificent failures ennoble our lives; for being human, as we are, they demonstrate how the human being, through will, dedication and reverence, can exceed himself to reach the high summits of his unique aspiration.
Though few of us will ever face such physical challenges, we are grateful to those who pursue the call of solitude, the unexpected and the unexplored. These achievements expand our horizons and bring us home to an ancient yearning —a yearning to reach for the highest simply because it is there. A challenge to the body, mind and spirit expressed on the mountaintop, on the wide open seas, or even in the joy of the child who, one fine crystalline morning, rushes outside to make the first footprints in the newly fallen snow.
Page 488
Tenzing on the summit of Everest, 1953
Tiger of the Snows
"Late in the morning of May 29, 1953, two mountaineers, named Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, stood for fifteen minutes on the summit of Mount Everest. They did what all climbers do when they have reached their goal: shook hands, took pictures, looked at the view, and started down again for the world below. That world, however, was to be very different from the one-they had left. For Tenzing, in particular, it was a world he never made and had never known. He went up the mountain as a simple man, but he came down a hero. And perhaps as much as any man in history he has reaped the hero's reward — and ordeal."
In 1954, James Ramsey Ullman, a well-known mountaineering writer, travelled to Darjeeling and spent several months with Tenting and his family. The result of their conversations was "Tiger of the Snows: The Autobiography of Tending of Everest". To readers used to accounts of Himalayan expeditions in the words of their Western organizers and climbers, this book is a refreshing and enlightening change. Tending tells his story, and the stories of some of the world's most famous expeditions, from the view point of a Sherpa, those strong and courageous mountain people, originally from Tibet and now settled in Nepal, who have made all the expeditions possible.
Tenzing was born in 1914 in Solo Khumbu, Nepal, in the shadow of the snowy ranges. He was, he says, born for the mountains. Not only was his body exceptionally fit for high altitudes (other climbers joked that he had a "third lung"!), but from childhood he was possessed of an unquenchable desire to scale the peaks that he saw towering above him.
Page 491
Eventually Tending became a much sought-after Sherpa and was sirdar of several big expeditions, climbing and carrying as well as organising all the other Sherpas and local porters. He climbed, and helped others climb, many of the high Himalayan peaks — but his heart and mind were always fixed on the highest of them all.
Tenzing's autobiography, unfortunately now out of print, is a rare and wonderful record of his many adventures and achievements. Here we are presenting a few passages dealing with his expeditions to the mountain which countless generations have known as Chomolungma, and which the British named after the first Surveyor General of India, Sir George Everest.
They say you should start with little things and go on to big ones, but it was not that way for me. My first expedition, in 1935, was to Everest. This was the fifth of the big British parties to go out to the mountain.
Their first one, in 1921, had not been an attempt to climb, but only an exploration, and it was on this that a way was found through Tibet, to the north side of the peak. To the Sherpas, who knew the route from Darjeeling to Solo Khumbu, it seemed strange to be going so far round to get to Chomolungma. But the reason was that the English had per mission to enter Tibet, while at the time — and until only a few years ago — no Westerners at all could enter Nepal.
From near the Rongbuk Monastery, directly north of Everest, the : 1921 explorers made many journeys along the glaciers and to the high passes, looking for a route to the upper mountain; and at last it was decided that the best one was along the East Rongbuk Glacier, and then up a steep wall of snow and ice to a pass, or saddle, more than 22,000 feet high, which they called the North Col. The famous climber, George Leigh-Mallory, with some others, reached this col, and though they were not equipped to go farther, they felt sure they had found a good way up the mountain. Later they looked for still other ways, and climbed a pass near the Lho La, which looks over on to the south-west side of Everest and almost to Solo Khumbu. But Mallory did not think this side looked like good climbing; and, besides, it was in Nepal, where they were not allowed to go. So it was thirty years before any one tried the mountain from that direction.
Page 492
In 1922 the first real climbing expedition came. With many English men and Sherpas, they set up camps on the glacier, another on the North Col, and still another on the steep ridge above. From there the strongest climbers went on to more than 27,000 feet, which is only two thousand feet from the top, and much higher than men had ever been before. But later there was the great avalanche on the steep slopes below the North Col, when a whole ocean of snow came pouring down on the roped porters. This was when seven Sherpas were killed, and it was the worst accident there, has ever been on Everest.
Still, in 1924, both Englishmen and Sherpas came back, and this was the famous expedition on which Mallory and Andrew Irvine disappeared as they climbed together towards the top. This time there were two camps, not one, above the Col, and the higher, at 26,800 feet, was carried up by the three Sherpas, Lhakpa Chedi, Norbu Yishay, and Semchunbi. From here, before Mallory and Irvine were lost, Colonel E.F. Norton and Dr. T.H. Somervell made a fine attempt, in which Norton reached more than 28,000 feet. This remained the world altitude record until Raymond Lambert and I went a little higher on the other side of the mountain during the first Swiss expedition of 1952.
The fourth attempt on Everest was not until 1933, which was the one on which I so much wanted to go, but was not taken. The result was much as in 1924, except that no lives were lost, and two teams of climbers — Wyn Harris and L.R. Wager together, and Frank Smythe, with Eric Shipton stopping a little below him — went to about the same place that Norton had reached. Again the highest tent, Camp Six, was set up by Sherpas, and this time the top men were Angtharkay, Pasang, Rinzing, Ollo, Dawa, Tshering, and Kipa. "Tigers," the English men called them. It was not until 1938 that this title became official, and Tiger Medals were awarded to the porters who went highest. But already in the twenties and early thirties the name was used, and our men bore it proudly.
Then came 1935, and my first chance.
From the beginning of the year there had been much talk about another expedition; but there was trouble getting permission to enter Tibet again, and it was late before Eric Shipton, who was now leader, arrived in Darjeeling. Because of this it was decided that there would be no real summit attempt, but only a reconnaissance, as in 1921. For the monsoon, which blows up each June from the south, would surely
Page 493
come while we were still climbing, and after that it is almost certain death on a high mountain from storms and avalanches. A reconnaissance would not be waste of time, though, because the British thought they might find a better route for the next year than the one always used before by way of the North Col.
(...) Like the earlier expeditions, we marched north from Darjeeling through Sikkim — first up and down, up and down, through the deep valleys and then high over the great passes into Tibet. In a straight line the distance from Darjeeling is only about a hundred miles, but we had to travel almost three hundred, going roundabout to the north and then off to the west. It was a long trip over wild, barren country, with much wind and dust. But one advantage of this old northern route was that you could carry things on mules almost to the base of the mountain, while on the new route through Nepal there are so many rivers and hanging bridges that everything must go on men's backs. On this 1935 expedition there were only twelve Sherpas, but many more non-climbing porters, mostly Tibetans, to take care of the mules and help with the unloading at base camp.
(...) This time, in 1935, was my first on a big mountain, and it was very exciting for me. Especially this was so because it was not just any mountain we had come to, but Everest itself — the great Chomolungma. Here we were up on the glaciers, already higher than anything that lives, and straight in front of us, straight above us, is this tower of rock and ice, climbing still more than two miles, almost three, into the sky. It is strange for me to realize that my old home is only a few miles away; that this is the same mountain in whose shadow I grew up and tended my father's yaks. From this side it is, of course, all different. There is nothing that I recognize, and it is hard to believe that it is really the same. And yet I do believe it. Besides what others tell me I know it in my heart, because I know that no mountain but Chomolungma could be so tall and great.
The work was hard. Between the lower camps we carried sixty to ninety pounds on our backs, beyond them about fifty-five pounds; and it was not just once up, and that was all, but up and down, up and down, for days and weeks, until all the tents and food and equipment were brought up where they should be. I did not mind it at all though, because, like all Sherpas, I was used to carrying heavy loads. And I thought. Now I am having my first chance to fulfil my dream.
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Because this was my first expedition there were, of course, many things that were new to me. We were issued with special clothes and boots and goggles. We ate strange foods out of tin cans. We used pres sure stoves and sleeping-bags and all sorts of other equipment I had never seen before. And in the actual climbing, too, there was much that I had to learn. Snow and glaciers themselves were nothing new to a boy who had grown up in Solo Khumbu, but now for the first time I had experience with the real techniques of mountaineering— using a rope, cutting steps with an axe, making and breaking camps, choosing routes that are not only quick but safe. As an apprentice porter, I was not given much responsibility. But I worked hard and was generally useful, and I think the sahibs liked me. Also the altitude did not bother me, even though I had never been so high before, and I was one of the Sherpas who carried loads to the North Col, at a height of more than 22,000 feet.
This was as far as the expedition went. As a reconnaissance, it did not have the equipment or number of men to go higher. And it was there on the Col, before we turned back, that I first realized that I was in some way different from the other Sherpas. For the rest of them were glad to go down. They did their work as a job, for the wages, and wanted to go no farther than they had to. But I was very disappointed. I wanted to go still higher on the mountain. Even then it was as it has been with me for all the rest of my life. When I am on Everest I can think of nothing else. I want only to go on, farther and farther. It is a dream, a need, a fever in the blood. But this time, of course, there was nothing I could do. We came down from the Col, and soon after left the mountain.
"Oh, well," I told myself, "you are only just twenty-one. There will be other expeditions. And soon, soon now, you will be a real Tiger...."
1947 The fourth time to Everest
(For almost ten years there had been no attempts on Everest because of World War II)
(...) In the spring of 1947 a mad thing happened. And it began when Mr. Earl Denman came to Darjeeling.
Mr. Denman had been born in Canada, grown up in England, and
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now lived in one of the British parts of Africa. There he had done a good deal of travelling and climbing in wild country, and he was obviously a man who could take good care of himself. But all the things he had done before or might do later meant little to him, because he had one great plan that had become the dream of his life. He wanted to climb Everest — and to climb it alone!... Well, no, perhaps 'alone' is not quite right.... He wanted to do it without a real expedition. Or/at least, he had no expedition. But he had to have some one to go with him, and that was how I met him. One day Karma Paul, the old sirdar, looked me up and said, "There is a sahib who has come to town, and he has an idea that might interest you." "About mountains?" I asked. "Yes, about mountains." And a while later, with another Sherpa, Ang Dawa, I found myself in Karma Paul's little office, meeting Mr. Denman.
Right from the beginning it was like nothing I had experienced before. Denman was alone. He had very little money and poor equipment. He did not even have permission to enter Tibet. But he was as determined as any man I have ever met, and talked — mostly through Karma Paul as interpreter — with great earnestness and persuasion. He was especially insistent that he wanted me with him. Because I was a Tiger; because I had climbed to 27,000 feet on Everest; because I spoke Tibetan and also some English; because I had been recommend ed as the best of all Sherpas. And it was all very flattering — but still mad — and Ang Dawa and I said we must think it over.
What there was to think about I do not know, because nothing made sense about it. First, we would probably not even get into Tibet. Second, if we did get in we would probably be caught, and, as his guides, we, as well as Denman, would be in serious trouble. Third, I did not for a moment believe that, even if we reached the mountain, a party such as this would be able to climb it. Fourth, the attempt would be highly dangerous. Fifth, Denman had the money neither to pay us well nor to guarantee a decent sum to our dependants in case something happened to us. And so on and so on. Any man in his right mind would have said no. But I couldn't say no. For in my heart I needed to go, and the pull of Everest was stronger for me than any force on earth. Ang Dawa and I talked for a few minutes, and then we made our decision "Well," I told Denman, "we will try."
As it turned out, he was not only without permission to enter Tibet, but had signed a paper promising not even to approach the border. So
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secrecy was of much importance, and instead of leaving Darjeeling together we met at a prearranged point outside the town and began our trip from there. Then we followed the usual expedition route through Sikkim. But that was our only resemblance to an expedition; for on such treks everything was carefully planned and organized, while we simply lived from day to day and hoped for the best, never knowing what the next would bring. Sometimes we travelled alone, sometimes with small caravans, from which we were able to hire pack animals to carry our loads. And gradually the valleys and forests of Sikkim fell away behind us, and we came up into the high Himalayan passes that mark the frontier of Tibet.
Here I recommended to Denman that we get off the usual expedition and trade route, that was sure to be patrolled; and, following a little-used pass, we were able to get across the border. Then we headed west over the great plateaux towards Rongbuk. Things went wrong, of course. Almost every day something went wrong. We seldom had enough food. Once the yaks that were carrying out loads plunged down a hillside, almost destroying both themselves and our baggage. Another time, as we had feared all along, a patrol caught up with us and ordered us to go back. But we were able to talk ourselves out of actual arrest, and after we had pretended to turn round were able to make a wide detour and continue on our way. From there on we avoided all towns and villages, and at last reached the Rongbuk Monastery, where we were received without questions or suspicion.
And now there, straight before us, was Everest — huge and white, with its streaming snow-plume, just as was meant to be. But I had not? taken leave of my senses, and, with the mountain looming above us, I was more conscious than ever of the hopelessness of what we were doing. I kept thinking of Maurice Wilson and his pathetic death in 1934, and I told myself, "No, we are not going to get into anything like that. No one is going to find our bodies dead and frozen in a tent."
Still we went on: up the glaciers, past the old lower camp-sites, towards the base of the walls below the North Col. With only the three of us, the work was back-breaking. The wind and cold were terrible. In face, they seemed to me the worst I had ever known on the mountain until I realized it was not so much they themselves as that we were so badly equipped. Our clothes were not wind-proof. Our food supply was low, and we were already out of the most important item — tea. Our
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two tents gave us as much protection as a sheet of paper, and soon Denman, who at first occupied one of them alone, had to come in with Ang Dawa and me, so that our three bodies together could make a little warmth.
At least we moved fast. On a big expedition it takes days between the setting up of one camp and the next, while all the supplies are brought up in relays. But each day we set up a new camp, carrying everything we had in one trip, and soon we were at the foot of the snow-slopes beneath the Col. I knew, though, that this was the end of it. Denman was less used to cold than Ang Dawa and myself and was suffering terribly. He could not sleep at night. Sometimes he seemed to have barely the strength to walk. From our highest camp — the fourth — we made a brief try at the steep snow and ice leading up to the Col; but the cold went through to our bones, and the wind almost knocked us flat. In a little while we were back in the tent, exhausted and beaten.
Even Denman knew we were beaten. He was a brave man — a determined, almost fanatic man with a fixed idea. But he was not mad. He was not ready to kill himself like Wilson, and he was willing to go back. For this I am as grateful as for anything that has happened in my life, for it would have been a terrible decision for Ang Dawa and myself if he had insisted on going on.
Our retreat was even faster than our advance. Now that he was defeated, Denman seemed only to want to get away from Everest as quickly as possible, as if it were a thing he no longer loved, but hated. We almost raced back to the Rongbuk Monastery, and then on across the wild, high plains of Tibet — almost as if the mountain were following us as an enemy. Now we were even shorter of food than before. Our clothes were in rags, and Denman's boots were in such bad shape that for a few days he had to walk barefoot. But we kept going. At least we were stopped by no patrols. And almost before I knew it we had crossed back from Tibet into Sikkim, and a few days later, towards the end of April, arrived in Darjeeling. The whole trip — to Everest, at Everest, and return — had taken only five weeks!
Everest with the Swiss: Spring 1952
Nanga Parbat, Nanda Devi, Kang Peak, Kashmir, Garhwal, Nepal, and even Tibet. I had been all over the map. I had climbed many mountains, seen many sights, lived through many experiences. But one thing
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had been missing — Chomolungma, the Great One. It was five years now since I had even seen it, on that strange, quick trip with Denman; fourteen since I had climbed high on its walls to win my rank as a Tiger. Sometimes I wondered if I would ever get back to it, or if the cods, for reasons of their own, were going to keep me for ever from this mountain that was closest to my heart.
But the gods were kinder than that. I was to go back again — and again, and again. And the last years of my 'critical' late thirties were to be the great years of my life.
It was a new Everest to which I returned. For the post war expeditions were no longer approaching it from the north, but from the south, and to climb a mountain from a different side is almost like climbing a different mountain. But while it was in one way new, in another it was old — older, for me at least, than the peak I had approached four times from Tibet and Rongbuk. For the southern route to Everest leads through Solo Khumbu and the country of my childhood; and, while I had never tried climbing from this side, it was the side I knew best of all in my memories and dreams....
(...) We were now at almost 20,000 feet, and some of the Swiss were beginning to feel the thinness of the air — especially Asper and Roch, who had worked very hard at the first crossing of the crevasse. One evening, I remember, they were sitting round talking about it, and some one said there was no need to worry about it: every one felt bad until they were acclimatized — even the Sherpas.
"Except this one," some one else said, pointing at me.
"Oh, him! He's got three lungs."
"The higher he goes the better he feels."
They laughed. And I laughed too. But the strange thing was that the last part of it, at least, was true. It had always been true in the mountains that the farther I went the more strongly I went, the better I felt in my legs and lungs and heart. What it is that makes this so I do not know. But it is there. As surely as the mountains are there. And it is this, I think, that has made possible what I have done; that has given me not only the strength, but the will, to go on; that has made my life in the high places not only a thing of work and struggle, but of love. Looking up on that evening through the cold, darkening air, I felt inside me a wave of strength, of warmth, of happiness. And I thought, Yes, I feel well. And it is going well.... I looked at Lambert. "Ca va bien," I
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said, smiling.... Perhaps this time — this time at last — we would go on and on until the dream came true.
There we were in the cwm, where no man — no living thing except an occasional bird — had ever been before. It was a deep, snow-filled valley, about four and a half miles long and two miles wide, with Everest on the left, Nuptse on the right, and the white walls of Lhotse rising straight ahead. Once you are really close to a mountain, it is hard to see much of it, and it was that way now with Everest, with its whole upper part lost in the sky above us. But we knew which way we must go to get there, for there was only one possible way — along the length of the cwm to the foot of Lhotse, and then up the steep snow-slopes on its left to the great saddle called the South Col which joined the peaks of the two mountains. After that ... But that was something we hardly dared think about. The first thing was to get to the col.
For three weeks we lived and worked in the Western Cwm. But the Swiss did not call it that. They had a better name for it — the Valley of Silence. Sometimes, of course, the wind would howl. Once in a while there was a great roaring as an avalanche fell from the heights above us. But mostly there was only a great snowy stillness, in which the only sounds were our own voices, our own breathing, the crunch of our boots, and the creaking of the pack-straps. We set up Camp Four, our advance base, near the middle of the cwm, and Camp Five near the foot of Lhotse. Every few days there was a storm that kept us pinned down in our tents: but mostly we were able to move according to schedule, and this was of the greatest importance. For, like all spring Everest expeditions, we were in a race with the monsoon, and we had to be not only up, but down and off the mountain, before it struck.
Camp Five was at about 22,640 feet, the South Col more than three thousand higher. The route selected for reaching it slanted upward from the head of the cwm, followed a deep couloir in the ice, and then ran along a great outcropping of rock which the Swiss named the Eperon des Genevois, or Geneva Spur. As in the icefall, there had to be much reconnoitring, much trying and failing, long days of step-cutting and rope-fixing, in which sahibs and Sherpas both took their turns. By this time I was working mostly with Lambert. There was nothing official about it; no one had ordered it that way. It had just seemed to happen. And I was happy about it, for we got along fine and made a strong team. By the beginning of the last week in May all the preparations had
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been made. A supply-dump had been established half-way up to the col; some of the climbers had gone still higher, almost to the top of the Geneva Spur; and now we were ready to try for the col itself. The team what was chosen to make the first effort — and also, if we got there, the first attempt on the summit — consisted of Lambert, Aubert, Flory, and myself, and with us went the Sherpas Pasang Phutar, Phu Tharke, Da Namgyal, Ajiba, Mingma Dorje, and Ang Norbu. My own job was now a double one. As from the beginning, I was still sirdar of the Sherpas, with the responsibility of seeing that they got their loads to their destination; but now I was also one of the climbing team and a real expedition member. It was an honour I was well aware of — the greatest honour that had ever been paid me — and in my heart I swore I would prove myself worthy.
We made one start on "May the 24th, but were turned back by bad weather. Then we set off again the next day, and this time kept going. We followed steps that had already been cut, and our loads were not heavy; so for a while we made good time. But after an hour we had our first bad luck when Ajiba had a sudden attack of fever, and there was no question but that he had to go back. Luckily we had not gone so far that he was unable to do it alone, and while he descended the rest of us divided up his load and went on. Towards midday we reached the supply-dump at the half-way point, and here we added to our loads many of the things that had already been brought. These included tents, fuel, and oxygen cylinders, but we were just carrying the oxygen, not using it. We had only enough with us to use near the very top of the mountain, where it might not be possible to live without it.
We moved on for another four hours — eight altogether since we had left the cwm. The 25,680-foot peak of Nuptse, behind us, was now "o higher than we were; we were already well up alongside the rocks of the Geneva Spur; the col was not far away. But the sun was sinking, and it was getting terribly cold. After struggling on a little farther Ang Norbu and Mingma Dorje stopped, dropped their loads, and said they were going down, because they were exhausted and afraid of frostbite. I began to argue with them: but the sahibs said, "No, they have done their best. Let them go." And they were right. When a man has done his best — and when he is in such a position as we were — he himself "must be the only judge of what he will do, and to make him do otherwise may result in his injury or death. So the two of them went down.
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Again the rest of us shared out the extra loads; but we could carry only a small part of them, and the bulk we had to leave to be brought up later. Suddenly something whipped past my face. It was Aubert's sleeping bag, that had somehow got loose during the repacking. The wind carried it like a great wobbling bird far out into space.
We went on for another hour. And another. Then it grew dark, and, though we were very close, we knew we could not reach the South Col that day. Stopping, we dug out a platform in the steep snow and ice and set up two tents. The three sahibs crawled into one; Pasang Phutar, Phu Tharke, Da Namgyal, and I into the other. The wind rose, and many times seemed about to carry us away. But we managed to hold our selves down, and I succeeded, after many attempts, in making some hot soup. Then we tried to sleep, but it was too cold. In the tiny tent we lay almost on top of one another, trying to get some warmth into our bodies, and the night seemed to go on for ever. Then at last it was morning again — and a clear morning. We looked up, and the col was very close. To-day we could reach it.
Only four of us started up —Lambert, Aubert, Flory, and myself, Phu Tharke and Da Namgyal went down to bring up the loads that we had had to leave below, and Pasang waited for them at the bivouac. The three Swiss and I moved up again — and up — but this time it was not for too long, and at about ten o'clock there came a great moment. The ice and rock flattened out before us; we had reached the top of the Geneva Spur, and there before us, at last, was the South Col. Indeed, it was not only before us, but below us, for the top of the spur is about 50 feet above it, on the Lhotse side, and we now had to go down to it just then. While the sahibs continued, taking my pack with them, I turned and descended the way we had come, to met the three other Sherpas and help them carry up the loads. I had hoped to meet them part of the way to the bivouac. Phu Tharke and Da Namgyal had come back all right with the loads from below, but had made no start to go farther, and Pasang Phutar, who had stayed at the bivouac all along, was lying in his tent and moaning.
"I'm ill," he told me. "I'm ill and going to die."
"No, you're not," I answered "You're going to be all right. You're going to get up and carry a load to the South Col."
He said he couldn't. I said he must. We argued, and I swore at him' and then I began slapping and kicking him to prove to him he wasn't
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dead. For it was a different thing now from when the others had turned back below. If the loads did not get up to the col the three sahibs there would surely die. And if I left Pasang where he was he too would surely die — and this time not only in his imagination. He was ill, yes. He was exhausted and miserable. But he could still move. And he had to move.
"Come on! Come on, Jockey!" I yelled at him. ("Jockey" was what we all called him, because he was little and often used to ride horses at the Darjeeling race-tracks.) And at last I got him up and out of the tent. We slung on our loads and started off. We climbed and crawled and staggered and pushed and pulled, and at last the four of us got up to the top of the spur, and then down to the col. By this time Phu Tharke and Da Namgyal were almost as done in as Pasang, and all they could do was get their tent up and creep inside. Luckily, though, my own "third lung" was still working fine; so, since there was still much food and equipment left at the bivouac place, I went down alone twice more and brought it all up. Now at last we had everything with us that we were supposed to have, and could make our attempt for the top.
I have been in many wild and lonely places in my life, but never anywhere like the South Col. Lying at 25,850 feet between the final peaks of Everest and Lhotse, it lacks even softness of snow, and is simply a bare, frozen plain of rock and ice, over which the wind roars with never a minute's stop. We were already almost as high as any mountain that had ever been climbed, but above us Everest's summit ridge rose up and up, as if it were another mountain in itself. The best route seemed to lead first up a long slope of snow, and then out on to the ridge itself: but how it would go we would not be able to tell until we got there. And the very top we could not even see, because it was hid den behind the snowy bump of a slightly lower south summit.
Night came. The wind howled. Lambert and I shared a tent, and did our best to keep each other warm. It was not quite so bad a night as the one before — but bad enough — and in the morning it was plain that the other three Sherpas were finished. Jockey was still talking about dying, and by now seemed really very ill; and the others were not much better off. The Swiss knew that if we were to have any chance of reaching the summit we must set up still another camp — the seventh — on the ridge above us, and they offered Phu Tharke and Da Namgyal special rewards if they would try to make the carry. But the two refused.
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Not only their bodies were worn out, but their spirits too; and besides not being willing to go higher themselves, they begged me not to do it. I was as determined one way, however, as they were the other, and finally things were worked out in the only possible manner. We got Jockey to his feet, tied him tightly on the rope between Phu Tharke and Da Namgyal, and the three of them started down, while the three sahibs and I made our preparations to go up. Without the others to help with the loads we could not carry nearly as much as was needed for Camp Seven, and our prospects for success looked slim. But there was nothing we could do about it.
So we started off — Aubert and Flory on one rope, Lambert and I on another. We climbed and climbed, hour after hour, up from the col along the steep snow-slope to the base of the south-east ridge, and then on up the ridge, and then on up the ridge itself. The weather was clear, and the mountain itself now protected us from the west wind; but the going was very slow, both because of the altitude and the problems of finding a safe route. We had only one tent with us, which I carried, and enough food for one day, and each of us also carried a small tank of oxygen, this being the first time in my mountain experience that I had ever used it. But the oxygen did not do us much good, because the apparatus would work only when we were resting or standing still, and not when we needed it most. Still we kept going. To 27,000 feet, and then farther. Now I have broken my own record, I thought. We are higher than I was at Camp Six, on the other side of the mountain, in 1938... But there were still almost two thousand feet to go.
At about 27,500 feet we stopped. We had gone as far as we could that day. As I have said, we were travelling very light, and I think it had been the sahibs' intention only to reconnoitre that day, dump the tent and a few supplies, and then come back up again when more porters were available. But the weather was almost perfect. Lambert and I were not too tired. I saw a small, almost level place where the tent could be pitched, pointed to it, and said, "Sahib, we ought to stay here to-night," Lambert smiled at me, and I could tell he had been thinking the same thing. Aubert and Flory came up behind us, the three talked it over, and it was decided that the first two would go down while Lambert and I stayed there. And in the morning, if the weather was still good, we would make our try for the top.
Aubert and Flory dumped their few things. "Take care of yourselves,"
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they told us — and there were tears in their eyes. Like Lambert and me, they were in good shape. It could have been they, instead of us, who stayed there, and they would have had as good a chance of success. But there was only the one tent and very little food, and they made the sacrifice without complaint. That is the mountain way.
They went down. They became tiny specks and disappeared. Lambert and I pitched the little tent, gasping and stumbling with the exertion; but as soon as we stopped working we felt better again, and the weather was so fine that we were able, for a while, to sit outside in the fading sunlight. With our different languages, we could not talk much. But there was no need to talk. Once I pointed up and said in English, "Tomorrow — you and I." And Lambert grinned and said, "Ca va bien!" Then it grew dark and colder, and we crawled into the tent. We had no stove, but we were not hungry, arid all we ate was a little cheese, which we washed down with snow that I melted over a candle. Also we had no sleeping-bags, and we lay close together, slapping and rubbing each other to keep the circulation going. This worked better for me, I think, than it did for Lambert, for I am of normal size, while he is so big and husky that I could warm only a small bit of him at a time. Still, it was not himself but me that he was concerned about — and especially that I should not get frostbitten feet. "For me it is all right," he said. "I have no toes. But you hang on to yours!"
There was no sleep. But we did not want to sleep. Lying still, with out any bags to protect us, we probably would have frozen to death. So we just slapped and rubbed, rubbed and slapped, and slowly, slowly the hours passed, until at last there was a faint grey light in the tent. Stiff and cold, we crawled out and looked about; and what we saw was not good, for the weather had worsened. It was not wholly bad — there was no storm — but the clearness was gone, clouds filled the sky to the south and west, and the wind, rising, blew sharp grains of ice into our faces. We hesitated a few moments, but, as usual, there was no need for words. Lambert jerked his thumb at the ridge with a wink, and I nodded, smiling. We had gone too far to-give up. We must make our try.
It seemed to take hours to get our crampons fastened on with our numb hands. But at last we were on our way. Up — up — very slowly, almost creeping — three steps and a stop, two steps and a stop, one step and a stop. We had three tanks of oxygen between us, but, as
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before, they were of no use while we were moving, and after a while we dropped them to relieve ourselves of the weight. Every twenty yards or so we changed places in the lead, so as to share the harder work of breaking the trail, and also so that one of us could rest and breathe deeply while letting the other pass. An hour went by. A second and a third hour. Mostly, the climbing itself was not too hard, but we had to be very careful of our route, for on one side of the ridge was a great precipice, and on the other a cornice of snow overhanging a whole ocean of space. Then at times the ridge steepened, and we had to cut steps; and at this sort of climbing Lambert was wonderfully good, because his short feet, with no toes, allowed him to stand on the tiniest places, just like a goat.
Another hour passed. It seemed like a day — or a week. The weather was growing still worse, with waves of mist and wind-driven snow. Even my "third lung" was beginning to have trouble, my throat was dried up and aching with thirst, and some of the time, in the steep snow, we were so tired that we had to crawl on all fours. Once Lambert turned and said something, but I could not understand him. Then, a while later, he spoke again; under his goggles and thick wind-cream he was grinning; and this time I understood him all right.
"Ca va bien!" he was saying.
"Ca va bien!" I answered back.
It was not true. It was not going well, and we both knew it. But that was how things were between us. When things were good it was ca va bien! And when they weren't it was ca va bien just the same.
At a time like this you think of many things. I thought of Darjeeling, of home, of Ang Lahmu and the girls. I thought of Dittert and his second team of climbers now coming up below us, and that if we didn't get to the top, perhaps they would do better. I thought, No, we ourselves will get there — and can do it! But if we do it, can we get down again? I thought of Mallory and Irvine, and how they had disappeared for ever, on the other side of the mountain, at just about the height we must be at now.... Then I stopped thinking. My brain went numb. I was just a machine that moved and stopped, moved and stopped, moved and stopped.
Then we stopped and did not move again. Lambert stood motion less, hunched in the wind and driving snow, and I knew he was working things out. I tried to work them out too, but it was even harder to
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think than to breathe. I looked down. We had come — how far? About 650 vertical feet, Lambert reckoned later; and it had taken us five hours. I looked up. And there was the south summit about 500 more feet above us. Not the summit. Just the south summit. And beyond it...
I believe in God. I believe that in men's hardest moments He some times tells them what to do, and that He did it then for Lambert and me. We could have gone farther. We could perhaps have gone to the top. But we could not have got down again. To go on would be to die.... And we did not go on. We stopped and turned back.... We had reached an altitude of about 28,250 feet — the nearest men had ever come to the top of Everest, the highest anyone had ever climbed in the world. But it was still not enough. We had given all we had, and it was no enough. We turned without speaking. We descended without speaking. Down the long ridge, past the high camp, along the ridge again, along the snow-slope. Slowly —slowly. Down — down — down....
That was all for Lambert and me. The next day, with Aubert and Flory, we went down from the col to the Western Cwm, while the second team of four Swiss and five Sherpas, under Dittert, went up past us to try their luck. At first they did better than we, getting from the cwm to the col in a single day's climbing; but there their luck left them. Altitude sickness struck both sahibs and Sherpas. The wind grew stronger and the cold deeper. And after three days and nights they had to come down, without having been able even to start an ascent of the summit ridge.
Well, it had been a great effort.
And I had made a great friend.
Everest with the Swiss: Autumn 1952
"But is autumn," Ang Lahmu said.
"Yes, it is autumn."
"You have never gone before at this time of year."
"No, never before."
"Then why are you going now?"
"Because we must try again," I said, "We must try everything."
For many years there had been talk of going to Everest in the autumn. During the winter, of course, it could not be dreamed of. In the summer there were the storms and avalanches of the monsoon. But in the autumn it was at least a possibility, and there were those who
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thought the weather might be even better than in the spring. The idea was never tried out, though, until in 1952, by the Swiss. They could not wait until the next spring, because for them there would be no next spring: for 1953 the Nepali Government had promised Everest to the British. So if the Swiss were to have another chance it must be now — again in 1952 — while they alone had permission to go to the mountain. Back at home that summer they talked things over and made their decision. Yes, they would try again....
Only two sahibs from the spring expedition were able to come back — Dr. Gabriel Chevalley, who was now the leader, and Raymond Lambert....
(...) From the cwm we climbed to Camp Six. From there to Seven. Then on November the 19th we went on towards the col. The going here was not terribly steep, for at Camp Seven we were already high on the Lhotse face, and the rest of the route was mostly a diagonal traverse across to the top of the Geneva Spur and the col beyond it. But our progress was slow, because we were now breaking fresh trail, and several times the porters had to wait while Lambert, Reiss, and I went j ahead to cut steps and string ropes. We had started off at about nine in the morning. At four-thirty in the afternoon we gained the high point of the climb at the top of the spur, and a little while later reached the col itself — for the second time in one year. It was getting dark, and the J cold and wind were indescribable. For what seemed like hours more we staggered round, trying to set up our camp near the still-visible remains of the spring one; and when at last two tents were up the seven Sherpas piled into them and disappeared. There was no use trying to argue with them. Lambert, Reiss, and I had had the benefit of oxygen on the climb. They had not, and they were done in. So the two sahibs and I worked away at the other three tents until we had them up and secured. Then it was our turn for shelter and rest. Almost all our food was frozen like stone, but I managed to heat up some chocolate and pass it round. Then came another night at the last limit of the earth.
Above the cwm we had been using a double thickness of tents, on6 inside another, but up here even this hardly helped; and the two tents rubbing together in the dry, icy wind filled the tiny sleeping space with sparks of electricity that crackled round our heads. Lambert had a small thermometer, and it went down to thirty below zero. He estimated late1" that the wind had been about sixty miles an hour — not only in gusts,
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Everest 1952:
Lambert and Tenzing
but in a steady gale. It was hard even for him to say, "Ca va bien!" Then at last morning came, and the gale was still blowing; but nevertheless we made ready to move on. We had to move, or else freeze to death. For breakfast we succeeded in making a little tea; that was all. Then we started off. The other Sherpas wanted to go down, not up, and one could scarcely blame them; but only one of them — Goundin — was actually ill, and the others finally agreed to try to go higher. With the two extra camps on the Lhotse face, the col camp was now Number Eight. On their backs they carried the equipment for the small Camp Nine that we hoped to set up on the summit ridge.
But on their backs was where Camp Nine stayed. It was already eleven-thirty before we were organized to leave. It took us almost another hour just to cross the col and begin the ascent of the snow-slope that leads up to the ridge. Flattened against a wall of ice were the remains of an eagle, and, though we were scarcely flying, it was all we could do to keep from being flattened out ourselves. Using our oxygen, Lambert, Reiss, and I went a little ahead of the others. Six months before, even with bad oxygen apparatus, the Bear and I had had little trouble with this part of the climb. But now, though the apparatus was good, it was of little help. The wind was too much. The cold was too much. Under our three pairs of gloves our fingers had lost all feeling. Our lips, then our noses, then our whole faces, began turning blue. Behind us the line of struggling Sherpas had almost ceased to move at all. There was only one sane — one even possible — thing to do. That was to turn back,
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and we knew it. But for Lambert and me it was a terrible decision. For this was our second try; it had become the hope of our lives that we could climb Everest together; and if we turned back now, who could tell if we would ever have another chance? Left to ourselves, we might have tried to go on. I do not say that we would have — or could have. Only that we might have; the desire was so strong. But there were the staggering Sherpas behind us. There was Reiss beside us, grimly shaking his head. We stopped, and for a few moments stood where we were, crouched over like animals against the fierceness of the wind. If it had not been so cold that the tears would have frozen before they left the eyes I think that I might have wept. I could not look at Lambert, and he did not look at me. Silently we turned and started down.
The Swiss later chose a word for what had happened to us. They said we had been "purged" from the mountain. And in that purging —, once we had turned back — there was never the slightest hope that we. could get back up again....
1953
In this story, everywhere, I have been honest, and I will continue to be so. In all honesty, then, I would rather have gone back to Everest with the Swiss. In spite of the way some people have tried to twist things, this does not mean that I dislike the British. I have climbed more with the British than with any other people, and been happy with them: and some of them — men such as Mr. Gibson, Major Osmaston, Major White, Mr. Tilman, Mr. Smythe, Lieutenant Marsh — I have counted among my close and dear friends. But it is still true that the English in general are more reserved and formal than the men of most other countries whom I have known; and especially is this so, I think, with people not of their own race. Perhaps this is because they have so long been rulers in the East, or perhaps it is only something in their own nature. But it is a thing which we Sherpas have had much chance to observe, since we have climbed, in recent years, with men of so many nations. With the Swiss and the French I had been treated as a comrade, an equal, in a way that is not possible for the British. They are kind men; they are brave; they are fair and just, always. But always, too, there is a line between them and the outsider, between sahib and employee, and to such Easterners as we Sherpas, who have experienced the world of 'no line,' this can be a difficulty and a problem.
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Yes, that is true, I thought. But how important is it? You have been happy with the British before, and you can be happy again. And, besides, you would not be going to a reception or tea-party, but back to Everest.... Everest — your life, your dream.... What will happen if you wait for the French or the Swiss? How will you feel if the British climb it and you are not with them? For you, no less than for them, it may be now or never.
You think. Your head spins. You make up your mind, change it, make it up again. I am almost thirty-nine, I thought. I am getting near the end of my 'critical years'. How much longer will I be able to climb high? Or am I already unable, after the strain and sickness I have just been through? I have been to Everest how often? Six times, including Denman. This would be the seventh, and, as with most people, that is held a lucky number among Sherpas. In our dice games, as in the chilinangas', seven is good. A group of seven is considered good for an undertaking, and seven children as the best number in a family. My mother had seven sons. This would be my seventh trip to Everest....
But I was worried about my health. After a little while at home I was no longer ill, but still weak and under-weight, and what would another big expedition — the third in only a little more than a year — do to me? Like the Swiss, the British wanted me both as sirdar and as a climber, and I had already decided that the combination was too much. But how else could I go? I thought about it all so much that I could hardly sleep at night. If it kept up much longer this way I would be ill all over again. So one day I left Toong Soong Busti, went to Mrs. Henderson, and said simply. "Yes, I will go." What I could not tell her — what I find it hard to say even now in the right words — is that I would go because I had to go.
Saying yes to Mrs. Henderson was one thing, but with my wife Ang Lahmu it was another. "You are too weak," she argued. "You will get ill again, or you will slip on the ice and fall and kill yourself."
"No, I will look out for myself," I told her. "Just like I always have."
"You take too many risks." . ,
"I am paid for climbing. They don't pay me for play. I must do what I am paid for."
"You are a daredevil," Ang Lahmu said. "You care nothing about roe or the children, or what happens to us if you die."
"Of course I care, woman. But this is my work — my life. Can't
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you understand that? You are in charge of the household here, and I don't interfere with that; but when it is a question of Everest no one interferes with me."
"But you are mad. You will kill yourself on this mountain. You will die."
"All right, I will die." By this time I was getting angry. "If I die I would rather do it on Everest than in your hut!"
I suppose all husbands and wives sometimes talk like that to each other. We got angry, made up, then got angry again. But at last Ang Lahmu saw that I was determined, and she said, "All right; you win."
(...) Meanwhile I was trying hard to get myself back into good condition. As I had done for many years past, before big expeditions, I got up early in the morning, filled a knapsack with stones, and took long walks up and down the hills round the town. I did not smoke or drink, and kept away from parties, which I usually enjoy. And all the time I was thinking, planning, hoping about what would happen on this, my seventh trip to Everest, "This is the time you must do it," I kept telling myself. "You must do it or die." ... And then: "Yes, that is all very well, but you cannot do it alone. There must be some one to go with you. On a great mountain you do not leave your companions and go to the top alone. And even if you did and came back alive, no one would believe you.... This time there will be no Lambert. Who will there be? There will be somebody, and we will go to the top together. We will get there. We must get there. I must get to the top or die...."
For the seventh time
Sherpas working, Sherpas talking. Part in our own language, part in Nepali, with a little English....
"Ready to go now?"
"Ah chah. O.K."
"But husier — be careful. It's a bara sapur — long trip." And off we go. Up the glacier. Along the moraines.
"Still ah chah?"
"No, not ah chah. Toi ye! Damn it (always with a big spit)! My load is crooked."
"Kai chai na. It doesn't matter."
"Toi ye (with a spit)! It does matter. I must stop —Kuche kuche. Please."
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"Ap ke ukam. Have it your own way. Here, I'll help you.... Is it ah chah now?"
"Yes, ah chah. Thuji chey. Thank you."
"Let's get going, then. But husier It gets steep here."
"Too steep. Toi ye !
Then more spitting. More climbing. More glacier and moraine, and at last the next camp.
"Shabash Well done! We've done it."
"For that day's work we should have baksheesh."
"Or at least a bowl of chang."
"With some chang we could toast ourselves... Tashi delai!
Here's how!"
"Tashi delai to you! To all of us!"
"Sherpas zindabad! Long live the Sherpas!"
(...) There is no point, I think, in my going into all the details of the next few weeks. Colonel Hunt has already done that in his fine book. A route up the icefall was found — again different from those of the earlier expeditions, because the ice was still always changing. Flags on tall poles were set up to mark the way. Steps were cut, ropes fixed, the ladder and timber bridges put in place across the crevasses, and long lines of Sherpas carried the loads up to Camp Two, in the icefall, and Camp Three, at the foot of the cwm. The weather was as usual for the middle of spring, generally clear in the morning with cloud and some snow in the afternoon. But there were no really bad storms, nor the terrible wind and cold that we had had in the past autumn. The schedule was arranged so that different teams took turns at the hardest work, and also that every one should come down regularly from the higher camps — not only to the base, but even farther down the glacier to a place called Lobuje, where there was a stream and some vegetation and the men could regain their strength quickly in the lower altitude. I think that much of the success of the expedition lay in the fact that there was time to do such things, while the Swiss had always been forced to hurry on.
Meanwhile Colonel Hunt had been working out his plan for the upper part of the mountain, and one day at base camp he announced how it would be. Before the expedition started I had been promised my chance at the top if I were in good physical condition, and a few days before, in an examination by the doctors, I had been found fitter than
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anyone. So I was to have the chance, as I had hoped and prayed. The three others chosen for the two summit attempts were Dr. Evans and Bourdillon, who would climb as one team, and Hillary, who would be my partner in the second....
(...) So on May the 23rd the Bourdillon-Evans party started up from the cwm. And on the 25th we followed after them —Hillary and myself, Lowe and Gregory, with eight of the best Sherpas. On the Lhotse face we met those who had set up the South Col camp on their way down, and they wished us luck; but no one knew if we would ever have a chance at the summit, for on the next day the others would be making their try. Round the halt of my ice-axe I had wound four flags. Two of them — of Britain and the United Nations — had been brought by the expedition. One — of Nepal — had been presented to us in Kathmandu. And the fourth was the Indian flag that Robi Mitra had given me in Darjeeling. "Is it all right if I take it too?" I had asked Colonel Hunt a few days before. And he had said, "Yes, that's a fine idea." So there I was with my four flags, but where they would end up no one could tell. Bourdillon and Evans also had flags with them, and they were now high above us on the mountain.
(...) We waited — looked up. Waited — looked up. And then at last, in the middle of the afternoon, we saw two figures coming down the snow-slope towards the camp. They have not done it, I thought. It is still too early for them to have got to the top and back. As before, with Hunt and Da Namgyal, we hurried out to meet them, and they too were so tired they could hardly speak or move. No, they told us, they had not reached the top. They had reached the south summit, only a few hundred feet below it, and the highest point to which men had ever climbed. But that had been the limit for them. Like Lambert and myself the year before, they might have been able to go on all the way, but surely would never have returned alive. Night would have come. Death would have come. And they had known it and turned back. Now in their tent we made them warm and gave them lemon-juice and tea. They were so thirsty that each of them drank about two quarts of liquid, and for a while we simply let them rest. But later, when some of their strength had returned, I asked them all sorts of questions about what they had done and seen, and how the route was, and what the problems were. "Tenzing, I'm confident you and Hillary will do it," said Evans. "But it's hard going, and will take four or five hours from
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the high camp. It's dangerous too — very steep and with cornices — and you must be careful. But if the weather's good you'll do it. You won't have to come back again next year."
(...) Ten of us spent the night on the col, huddled together in the three sleeping-tents. It was the plan that we start off early the next morning, but in the darkness the wind grew even stronger than usual, and when light came it was roaring like a thousand tigers. It was hope less even to think of going up. All we could do was wait and hope the storm would blow itself out, and luckily we had enough food to last for at least one extra day....
(...) Then came the second night, and the weather was still bad. We lay close together in our sleeping-bags, breathing the "night oxygen," and the sahibs took pills to help them sleep. I lay in the darkness, listening to the wind, and I thought. It must stop. It must stop, so that tomorrow we can go up. I have been seven times to Everest. I love Everest. But seven times is enough. From here we must go to the top. It must be this time. It must be now....
The dream comes true
May the 28th.... It had been on the 28th that Lambert and I had made our final effort, struggling up as far as we could above our high camp on the ridge. Now we were a day's climb lower: a day later. A year later.
When it first grew light it was still blowing, but by eight o'clock the wind had dropped. We looked at each other and nodded. We would make our try.
(...) We crossed the frozen rocks of the col. Then we went up the snow-slope beyond, and up a long couloir, or gully, leading towards the south-east ridge. As had been planned, the fine steps cut by the others made the going easier for us, and by the time they reached the foot of the ridge — about noon — we had caught up with them. A little above us here, and off to one side, were some bare poles and a few shreds of canvas that had once been the highest camp for Lambert and me; and they brought back many memories. Then slowly we passed by and went on up the ridge. It was quite steep, but not too narrow, with rock that sloped upward and gave a good foothold, if you were careful about the loose snow that lay over it. About 150 feet above the old Swiss tent we came to the highest point that Colonel Hunt and Da Namgyal had reached two days before, and there in the snow were the tent, food, and
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oxygen-tanks which they had left for us. These now we had to add to our own loads, and from there on we were carrying weights of up to sixty pounds.
The ridge grew steeper, and our pace was now very slow. Then the snow became thicker, covering the rocks deeply, and it was necessary to cut steps again. Most of the time Lowe did this, leading the way with his swinging axe, while the rest of us followed. But by two in the afternoon all of us, with our great loads, were beginning to get tired, and it was agreed that we must soon find a camping-place. I remembered a spot that Lambert and I had noticed the year before — in fact, that we had decided would be our highest camp-site if we had another chance at the top — but it was still hidden above us, and on the stretch between there was no place that could possibly have held a tent. So on we went, with myself now leading — first still along the ridge, then off to the left, across steep snow, towards the place I was looking for.
"Hey, where are you leading us to?" asked Lowe and Gregory. "We have to go down."
"It can't be far now," I said. "Only five minutes."
But still we climbed; still we didn't get there. And I kept saying, "Only five minutes.... Only five minutes."
"Yes, but how many five minutes are there?" Ang Nyima asked in disgust.
Then at last we got there. It was a partly level spot in the snow, down a little from the exposed ridge and in the shelter of a rocky cliff, and there we dropped our loads. With a quick "Good-bye — good luck" Lowe, Gregory, and Ang Nyima started down the col, and Hillary and I were left alone. It was then the middle of the afternoon and we were at a height of about 27,900 feet. The summit of Lhotse, the fourth highest peak in the world, at which we had looked up every day during the long expedition, was now below us. Over to the south-east Makalu was below us. Everything we could see for hundreds of miles was below us, except only the top of Kangchenjunga, far to the east — and the white ridge climbing on above us into the sky.
We started pitching the highest camp that had ever been made. And it 'took us almost until it was dark. First we chopped away at the ice to try to make our sleeping place a little more level. Then we struggled with frozen ropes and canvas, and tied the ropes round oxygen-cylinders to hold them down. Everything took five times as long as it would have in
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Tenzing and Hillary in the couloir leading from the South Col onto the Southeast ridge
a place where there was enough air to breathe; but at last we got the tent up, and when we crawled in it it was not too bad. There was only a light wind, and inside it was not too cold to take off our gloves. Hillary checked the oxygen-sets, while I got our little stove going and made warm coffee and lemon-juice. Our thirst was terrible, and we drank them down like two camels. Later we had some soup, sardines, biscuits, and tinned fruit, but the fruit was frozen so hard we had first to thaw it out over the stove.
We had managed to flatten out the rocks and ice under the tent, but not all at one level. Half the floor was about a foot higher than the other half, and now Hillary spread his sleeping-bag on the upper half, and I put mine on the lower. When we were in them each of us rolled over close against the canvas, so that the weight of our bodies would help hold it in place. Mostly the wind was. still not too bad, but some times great gusts would come out of nowhere, and the tent would seem ready to fly away. Lying in the dark, we talked of our plans for the next day. Then, breathing the "night-oxygen," we tried to sleep. Even in our eiderdown bags we both wore all our clothes and I kept on my Swiss reindeer-boots. At night most climbers take off their boots, because
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they believe this helps the circulation in the feet; but a high altitudes I myself prefer to keep them on. Hillary, on the other hand, took his off and laid them next to his sleeping-bag.
The hours passed, I dozed and woke, dozed and woke. And each time I woke I listened. By midnight there was no wind at all. God is good to us, I thought. Chomolungma is good to us. The only sound was that of our own breathing as we sucked at our oxygen.
May the 29th.... On the 29th Lambert and I had descended in defeat from the col to the cwm. Down — down— down....
At about three-thirty in the morning we began to stir. I got the stove going and boiled snow for lemon-juice and coffee, and we ate a little of the food left over from the night before. There was still no wind. When, a little while later, we opened the tent-flap everything was clear and quiet in the early-morning light. It was then that I pointed down and showed Hillary the tiny dot that was the Thyangboche Monastery, 16,000 feet below. "God of my father and mother," I prayed in my heart, "be good to me now — to day."
(...) At six-thirty, when we crawled from the tent, it was still clear and windless. We had pulled three pairs of gloves on to our hands — silk, wool, and windproof — and now we fastened our crampons to our boots, and on to our backs slung the forty pounds of oxygen apparatus that would be the whole load for each of us during the climb. Round my axe were still the four flags, tightly wrapped....
"All ready?"
"Ah chah. Ready."
And off we went. :
Hillary's boots were still stiff, and his feet cold, so he asked me to take the lead. And for a while that is how we went on the rope — up from the camp-site to the south-east ridge, and then on along the ridge towards the south summit. Sometimes we found the footprints of Bourdillon and Evans and were able to use them; but mostly they had been wiped away by the winds of the two days before, and I had to kick or chop our own steps. After a while we came to a place I recognized — the point where Lambert and I had stopped and turned back. I pointed it out to Hillary, and tried to explain through my oxygen mask, and as we moved on I thought of how different it was these two times — of the wind and the cold then and the bright sunshine now — and how lucky we were on this day of our great effort. By now Hillary's
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feet were feeling better, so we changed places on the rope; and we kept doing this from then on, with first one of us leading the way and then the other, in order to share the work of kicking and chopping. As we drew near the south summit we came upon something we had been looking for — two bottles of oxygen that had been left for us by Bourdillon and Evans. We scraped the ice off the dials, and were happy to see that they were still quite full. For this meant that they could be used later for our downward trip to the col, and meanwhile we could breathe in a bigger amount of what we were carrying with us.
We left the two bottles where they were and climbed on. Until now the climbing — if not the weather — had been much the same as I remembered from the year before — along the steep, broken ridge, with a rock precipice on the left and snow cornices hiding another precipice on the right. But now, just below the south summit, the ridge broadened out into a sort of snow-face, so that the steepness was not so much to the sides as straight behind us, and we were climbing up an almost vertical white wall. The worst part of it was that the snow was not firm, but kept sliding down, sliding down — and we with it — until I thought, Next time it will keep sliding, and we will go all the way to the bottom of the mountain. For me this was the one really bad place on the whole climb, because it was not only a matter of what you your self did, but what the snow under you did, and this you could not control. It was one of the most dangerous places I had ever been on a mountain. Even now, when I think of it, I can still feel as I felt then, and the hair almost stands up on the back of my hands.
At last we got up it, though, and at nine o'clock we were on the south summit. This was the highest point that Bourdillon and Evans had reached, and for ten minutes we rested there, looking up at what was still ahead. There was not much farther to go — only about 300 feet of ridge — but it was narrower and steeper than it had been below, and, though not impossible-looking, would certainly not be easy. On the left, as before, was the precipice falling away to the Western Cwm, 8,000 feet below, where we could now see the-tiny dots that were the tents of Camp Four. And on the right were still the snow cornices, hanging out over a 10,000-foot drop to the Kangshung Glacier. It we were to get to the top it would have to be along a narrow, twisting line between precipice and cornices — never too far to the left, never too far to the right, or it would be the end of us.
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One thing we had eagerly been waiting for happened on the south summit. Almost at the same moment we each came to the end of the first of our two bottles of oxygen, and now we were able to dump them here, which reduced the weight we were carrying from forty to only twenty pounds. Also, as we left the south summit, another good thing happened. We found that the snow beyond it was firm and sound. This could make all the difference on the stretch that we still had to go.
"Everything all right?"
"Ah chah. All right."
From the south summit we first had to go down a little. Then up, up, up. All the time the danger was that the snow would slip, or that we would get too far out on a cornice that would then break away; so we moved just one at a time, taking turns at going ahead, while the second one wrapped the rope round his axe and fixed the axe in the snow as an anchor. The weather was still fine. We were not too tired. But every so often, as had happened all the way, we would have trouble breathing, and have to stop and clear away the ice that kept forming in the tubes of our oxygen-sets....
Anyhow, after each short stop we kept going, twisting always higher along the ridge between the cornices and the precipices. And at last we came to what might be the last big obstacle below the top. This was a cliff of rock rising straight up out of the ridge and blocking it off, and we had already known about it from aerial photographs and from seeing it through binoculars from Thyangboche. Now it was a question of how to get over or round it, and we could find only one possible way. This was along a steep, narrow gap between one side of the rock and the inner side of an adjoining cornice, and Hillary, now going first, worked his way up it, slowly and carefully, to a sort of platform above. While climbing he had to press backward with his feet against the cornice, and I belayed him from below as strongly as I could, for there was great danger of the ice giving way. Luckily, however, it did not. Hillary got up safely to the top of the rock, and then held the rope while I came after.
(...) On top of the rock-cliff we rest again. Certainly, after the climb up the gap, we are both a bit breathless, but after some slow pulls at the oxygen I am feeling fine. I look up; the top is very close now; and my heart thumps with excitement and joy. Then we are on our way again. Climbing again. There are still the cornices on our right and the precipice on our left, but the ridge is now less steep. It is only a row of
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snowy humps, one beyond the other, one higher than the other. But we are still afraid of the cornices, and, instead of following the ridge all the way, cut over to the left, where there is now a long snow-slope above the precipice. About a hundred feet below the top we come to the highest bare rocks. There is enough almost level space here for two tents, and I wonder if men will ever camp in this place, so near the summit of the earth. I pick up two small stones and put them in my pocket to bring back to the world below. Then the rocks too are beneath us. We are back among the snowy humps. They are curving off to the right, and each time we pass one I wonder, Is the next the last one? Is the next the last? Finally we reach a place where we can see past the humps, and beyond them is the great open sky and brown plains. We are looking down the far side of the mountain upon Tibet. Ahead of us now is only one more hump — the last hump. It is not a pinnacle. The way to it is an easy snow-slope, wide enough for two men to go side by side. About thirty feet away we stop for a minute and look up. Then we go on....
I have thought much about what I will say now — of how Hillary and I reached the summit of Everest. Later, when we came down from the mountain, there was much foolish talk about who got there first. Some said it was I, some Hillary. Some that only one of us got there — or neither. Still others, that one of us had to drag the other up. All this was nonsense. And in Kathmandu, to put a stop to such talk, Hillary and I signed a statement in which we said "we reached the summit almost together." We hoped this would be the end of it. But it was not the end. People kept on asking questions and making up stories. They pointed to the "almost" and said, "What does that mean?" Mountaineers under stand that there is no sense to such a question; that when two men are on the same rope they are together, and that is all there is to it. But other people did not understand. In India and Nepal, I am sorry to say, there has been great pressure on me to say that I reached the summit before Hillary. And all over the world I am asked, "Who got there first? Who got there first?"
Again I say, "It is a foolish question. The answer means nothing." And yet it is a question that has been asked so often — that has caused so much talk and doubt and misunderstanding — that I feel, after long thought, that the answer should be given. As will be clear, it is not for my own sake that I give it. Nor is it for Hillary's. It is for
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the sake of Everest — the prestige of Everest — and for the generations who will come after us. "Why," they will say, "should there be a mystery to this thing? Is there something to be ashamed of? To be hidden? Why can we not know the truth?"... Very well: now they will know the truth. Everest is too great, too precious, for anything but the truth.
A little below the summit Hillary and I stopped. We looked up. Then we went on. The rope that joined us was thirty feet long, but I held most of it in loops in my hand, so that there was only six feet between us. I was not thinking of "first" and "second." I did not say to myself, "There is a golden apple up there. I will push Hillary aside and run for it." We went on slowly, steadily. And then we were there. Hillary stepped on top first. And I stepped up after him. ;
So there it is — the answer to the "great mystery." And if, after all the talk and argument, the answer seems quiet and simple I can only say that that is as it should be. Many of my own people, I know, will be disappointed at it. They have given a great and false importance to the idea that it must be I who was "first". These people have been good and wonderful to me, and I owe them much. But I owe more to Everest — and to the truth. If it is a discredit to me that I was a step behind Hillary, then I must live with that discredit. But I do not think it was that. Nor do I think that, in the end, it will bring discredit on me that I tell the story. Over and over again I have asked myself, "What will future generations think of us if we allow the facts of our achievement to stay shrouded in mystery? Will they not feet ashamed of us — two comrades in life and death — who have something to hide from the world?' And each time I asked it the answer was the same: "Only the truth is good enough for the future. Only the truth is good enough for Everest.
Now the truth is told. And I am ready to be judged by it.
We stepped up. We were there. The dream had come true....
What we did first was what all climbers do when they reach the top of their mountain. We shook hands. But this was not enough for Everest. I waved my arms in the air, and then threw them round Hillary, and we thumped each other on the back until, even with the oxygen, we were almost breathless. Then we looked round. It was eleven-thirty in the morning, the sun was shining, and the sky was the deepest blue I have ever seen. Only a gentle breeze was blowing, coming from the direction of Tibet, and the plume of snow that always blows from
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Everest's summit was very small. Looking down the far side of the mountain, I could see all the familiar land-marks from the earlier expeditions — the Rongbuk Monastery, the town of Shekar Dzong, the Kharta Valley, the Rongbuk and East Rongbuk Glaciers, the North Col, the place near the north-east ridge where we had made Camp Six in 1938. Then, turning, I looked down the long way we ourselves had come — past the south summit, the long ridge, the South Col; on to the Western Cwm, the icefall, the Khumbu Glacier; all the way down to Thyangboche, and on to the valleys and hills of my homeland.
Beyond them, and around us on every side, were the great Himalayas, stretching away through Nepal and Tibet. For the closer peaks — giants like Lhotse, Nuptse, and Makalu — you now had to look sharply down ward to see their summits. And, farther away, the whole sweep of the greatest range on earth — even Kangchenjunga itself — seemed only like little bumps under the spreading sky. It was such a sight as I had never seen before and would never see again — wild, wonderful, and terrible. But terror was not what I felt. I loved the mountains too well for that. I loved Everest too well. At that great moment for which I had wait ed all my life my mountain did not seem to me a lifeless thing of rock and ice, but warm and friendly and living. She was a mother hen, and the other mountains were chicks under her wings. I too, I felt, had only to spread my own wings to cover and shelter the brood that I loved.
We turned off our oxygen. Even there on top of the world it was possible to live without it, so long as we were not exerting ourselves. We cleared away the ice that had formed on our masks, and I popped a bit of sweet into my mouth. Then we replaced the masks. But we did not turn on the oxygen again until we were ready to leave the top. Hillary took out his camera, which he had been carrying under his clothing to keep it from freezing, and I unwound the four flags from around my axe. They were tied together on a string, which was fastened to the blade of the axe, and now I held the axe up, and Hillary took my Picture. Actually he took three, and I think it was lucky, in those difficult conditions, that one came out so well. The order of the flags from top to bottom was United Nations, British, Nepalese, Indian; and the same sort of people who have made trouble in other ways have tried to find political meaning in this too. All I can say is that on Everest I was not thinking about politics. If I had been, I suppose I would have put the Indian or Nepalese flag highest, though that in itself would have
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been a bad problem for me. As it is, I am glad that the U.N. flag was on top. For I like to think that our victory was not only for ourselves — not only for our own nations — but for all men everywhere.
I motioned to Hillary that I would now take his picture. But for some reason he shook his head; he did not want it. Instead he began taking more pictures himself, around and down on all sides of the peak, and meanwhile I did another thing that had to be done on the top of our mountain. From my pocket I took the package of sweets I had been carrying, I took the little red-and-blue pencil that my daughter, Nima, had given me. And, scraping a hollow in the snow, I laid them there. Seeing what I was doing, Hillary handed me a small cloth cat, black and with white eyes, that Hunt had given him as a mascot, and I put this beside them. In his story of our climb Hillary says it was a crucifix that Hunt gave him, and that he left on top; but if this was so I did not see it. He gave me only the cloth cat. All I laid in the snow was the cat, the pencil, and the sweets. "At home," I thought, "we offer sweets to those who are near and dear to us. Everest has always been dear to me, and now it is near too." As I covered up the offerings I said a silent prayer. And I gave my thanks. Seven times I had come to the mountain of my dream, and on this, the seventh, with God's help, the dream had come true.
"Thuji chey, Chomolungma. I am grateful...."
We had now been on top almost fifteen minutes. It was time to go. Needing my axe for the descent, I could not leave it there with the flags; so I united the string that held them, spread the flags across the summit, and buried the ends of the string as deeply as I could in the snow. A few days later planes of the Indian Air Force flew round the peak, taking photographs, but the fliers reported they could see nothing that had been left there. Perhaps they were too far off. Or perhaps the wind had blown the flags away. I do not know.
Before starting down we looked round once more. Had Mallory and Irvine reached the top before they died? Could there be any sign of them? We looked, but we could see nothing. Still they were in my thoughts, and, I am sure, in Hillary's too. All those who had gone before us were in my thoughts — sahibs and Sherpas, English and Swiss — all the great climbers, the brave men, who for thirty-three years had dreamed and challenged, fought and failed, on this mountain, and whose efforts and knowledge and experience had made our victory possible. Our companions below were in my thoughts, for without
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them too — without their help and sacrifice — we could never have been where we were that day. And closest of all was one figure, one companion — Lambert. He was so near, so real to me, that he did not seem to be in my thoughts at all, but actually standing there beside me. Any moment now I would turn and see his big bear face grinning at me. I would hear his voice saying, "Ca va bien, Tenzing! Ca va bien!"
Well, at least his red scarf was there. I pulled it more tightly round my throat. "When I get back home," I told myself, "I will send it to him." And I did.
Since the climbing of Everest all sorts of questions have been put to me and not all of them have been political. From the people of the East there have been many that have to do with religion and the supernatural. "Was the Lord Buddha on the top?" I have been asked. Or "Did you see the Lord Siva?'-' From many sides, among the devout and orthodox, there has been great pressure upon me to say that I had some vision or revelation. But here, again — even though it may be disappointing to many — I can tell only the truth; and this is no, that on the top of Everest I did not see anything supernatural or feel anything superhuman. What I felt was a great closeness to God, and that was enough for me. In my deepest heart I thanked God. And as we turned to leave the summit I prayed to Him for something very real and very practical — that, having given us our victory. He would get us down off the mountain alive.
(...) Do I myself want to climb again? The answer here is: On other, smaller mountains — yes. On Everest — no. On such a peak, as on any of the true Himalayan giants, to be both a high climber and a sirdar, with the two different responsibilities, is too much for one man, and there will be no more such ordeals in my life. In the past it was different. In 1953 I felt that I must either get to the top of Everest or die, and the victory was well worth the struggle. But now that victory has been granted I cannot feel the same way again, either about Everest or about any mountain equally formidable. I am now forty, which is not so old but neither is it so young — and I do not long for any more "tops of the world" to conquer. Most certainly, though, I want to return to the mountains again, for the mountains are my home and my life. I want to go back many times — on small expeditions, for good climbs with good companions. Most of all, I want to do some more good climbing with my dear friend Raymond Lambert.
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Besides climbing, I should like to travel. When this book is published there I hope to visit the United States. I hope to go back to England and Switzerland, where I have had such wonderful welcomes, and also to see many places where I have never been before. From my travels so far I feel that I have learned a great deal, and not only about cities and airlines and geography. I have learned that the world is big, and that you cannot see all of it from one little comer; that there is good and bad in all of it; that because people are different from yourself it does not necessarily mean that you are right and they are wrong. It has often been said that Westerners are more materialistic than Easterners, but could it not be that they are also more honest? In my own experience, at least with officials and tradesmen, this was very much the case. Also, we of the East often pride ourselves on our hospitality; but the reception I received in London almost made me blush when I com pared it with what the British climbers were given when they returned to Kathmandu. By these two small examples I do not mean that I am against my own people. On the contrary, I am proud to be both an Indian and a Nepali. But I think that much harm has been done by narrow prejudice and nationalism, that Everest itself has been harmed, and that my own people are at least partly to blame. The world is too small, Everest too great, for anything but tolerance and understanding: that is the most important of all things I have learned from my climbing and my travelling. Whatever the difficulties that arose about Everest, they are as nothing beside the common cause and the common victory, and to my English companions — to Hunt and Hillary and to the others and all their countrymen — I reach out my hand across half the world.
Since the climbing of Everest my own people have been good to me. Every one has been good to me. But, as for all men, I suppose, there have been good and bad, rewards and problems, all mixed up together. Sometimes the crowds around me have been so thick, the pressures so great, that I have thought gloomily that a normal life is no longer possible; that my only chance for happiness is to go off with my family to some solitary place where we can live in peace. But this would be a defeat and a retreat, and I pray it will not be necessary, If only people will leave me alone politically things will be all right. If only they will not push and pull at me for their own purposes: asking why I speak this or that language, why I wear Indian or Nepali or Western clothing, why the flags were in one order instead of another
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when I held them up on the top of Everest. It is not so much for my own sake that I feel this as for the sake of Everest itself. For it is too great, too precious, for such smallness. What I hope for most for the future is that I be allowed to live my life honourably, and not disgrace Everest. Future generations will ask, "What sort of men were they who first climbed to the top of the world?" And I want the answer to be one of which I would not be ashamed.
For it is just this, I think, that is the real importance of Everest: that it is the top not merely of one country or another, but of the whole earth. It was climbed by men both of the East and the West. It belongs to us all. And that is what I want also for myself: that I should belong to all, be a brother to all men everywhere, and not merely a member of some group or race or creed. As I have said at the beginning of my story, I am a lucky man. I have had a dream, and it has come true. All I can now ask of God is that I may be worthy of what has been granted me.
July 1953: welcome in Switzerland
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from J.R.Ullmann,
Tiger of the Snows: The Autobiography of Tending of Everest
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May 1978: Reinhold Messner and Peter Habeler on the
first oxygenless ascent of the Everest
To begin with, it was just a beautiful illusion, a fantasy, to imagine climbing the highest mountain in the world without technical assistance. But out of this illusion a concept grew and finally, a philosophy: can Man, solely by his own efforts, reach the summit of Everest? Is the world so constructed that Man can climb to its highest point without mechanical aids?
I don't climb mountains simply to vanquish their summits. What would be the point of that? I place myself voluntarily into dangerous situations to learn to face my own fears and doubts, my innermost feelings.
The 'Adventure' is immediately diminished as soon as Man, to further his own ambition, uses technology as a hoist. Even the highest mountains begin to shrink if they are besieged by hundreds of porters, attacked with pegs and oxygen apparatus. In reaching for an oxygen cylinder, a climber degrades Everest to the level of a six-thousand metre peak. . .
The Himalayan pioneers ventured cautiously up into the great heights, groping their way, sometimes in small groups, sometimes alone. The fascinating tales they brought back of the loneliest regions of the world inspired other adventurers to follow their example. But they all lived in harmony with the mystery of the mountains. It was only with the nationalistic expeditions of the inter and post war years and their great emphasis on 'Conquest', that the delicate balance between the Adventurer and the 'Unknown' was destroyed.
Some of the mystery ebbs with every expedition. A mountain region is soon exhausted when no rein is placed on technical assistance, when a summit triumph is more important to a mountaineer than self-discovery. The climber who doesn't rely on his own strength and skills, but on apparatus and drugs, deceives himself.
The face mask is like a barrier between Man and Nature; it is a filter that hinders his visionary perceptions. An Everest ascent without using
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artificial oxygen is the only alternative to previous ascents, all of which were made with its help.
'Everest by fair means' — that is the human dimension, and that is what interests me.
Mountains are so elemental that man does not have the right nor the need to subdue them with technology. Only the man who chooses his tools with humility can experience natural harmony.
Suddenly, I begin to nurture this idea. I want to climb until I either reach the top of the mountain, or I can go no further. I feel so passionately about this that I am prepared to endure anything, to risk much. I am willing to go further than ever I have before. I am resolved, for this idea, to stake everything I have....
(Reinhold Meissner and Peter Habeler succeed in climbing Everest without oxygen on May 8th 1978. But two years later a new ambition seizes him: to be the first man to climb Everest solo, and without oxygen. In the summer of 1980 he and a friend trek through Tibet to the north side of the world's highest mountain. There, he acclimatizes himself and prepares mentally and physically for the assault. Before dawn on August 18, he sets out, alone. But before the sun has risen, disaster strikes...)
The snow suddenly gives way under me and my headlamp goes out. Despairingly I try to cling on in the snow, but in vain. The initial reaction passes. Although it is pitch-dark I believe I can see everything: at first snow crystals, then blue-green ice. It occurs to me that I am not wearing crampons. I know what is happening but nevertheless remain quite calm. I am falling into the depths and experience the fall in slow motion, strike the walls of the widening crevasse once with my chest, once with the rucksack. My sense of time is interrupted, also my perception of the depth of the drop. Have I been falling only spilt seconds or is it minutes? I am completely weightless, a torrent of warmth surges through my body.
Suddenly I have support under my feet again. At the same time I know that I am caught, perhaps trapped forever in this crevasse. Cold sweat beads my forehead. Now I am frightened. 'If only I had a radio with me' is my first thought. I could call Nena. Perhaps she would hear me. But whether she could climb the 500 meters up to me and let a
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rope down to me in the crevasse is more than questionable. I have consciously committed myself to this solo ascent without a radio, and discussed it many times before starting.
I finger my headlamp and suddenly everything is bright. It's working! I breathe deeply, trying not to move at all. Also, the snow surface on which I am standing is not firm. Like a thin, transparent bridge it hangs fragile between both walls of the crevasse. I put my head back and see some eight meters above the tree trunk sized hole through which I have fallen. From the bit of black sky above a few far, far distant stars twinkle down at me. The sweat of fear breaks from all my pores, covers my body with a touch which is as icy as the iridescent blue-green ice walls between which I am imprisoned. Because they converge obliquely above me I have no chance of climbing up them. With my headlamp I try-to light up the bottom of the crevasse; but there is no end to be seen. Just a black hole to the left and right of me. The snow bridge which has stopped my fall is only one square metre large.
I have goose-pimples and shiver all over. The reactions of my body, however, are in stark contrast to the calm in my mind: there is no fear at the prospect of a new plunge into the bottomless depths, only a pre sentiment of dissolving, of evaporation. At the same time my mind says, that was lucky! For the first time I experience fear as a bodily reflex without psychological pain in the chest. My only problem is how to get out again. Mount Everest has become irrelevant. I seem to myself like an innocent prisoner. I don't reproach myself, don't swear. This pure, innocent feeling is inexplicable. What determines my life at this moment I do not know. I promise to myself I will descend, I will give up, if I come out of this unhurt. No more solo eight-thousanders!
My sweaty fear freezes in my hair and beard. The anxiety in my bones disappears the moment I set my body in motion, as I try to get my crampons out of the rucksack. But at each movement the feeling of falling again comes over me, a feeling of plunging into the abyss, as if the ground were slowly giving way. . ,
Then I discover a ramp running along the crevasse walls on the valley side, a ledge the width of two feet in the ice which leads obliquely upwards and is full of snow. That is the way out! Carefully I let myself fall forward, arms outstretched, to the adjoining crevasse wall. For a long moment my body makes an arch between the wedged snow block
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and the slightly overhanging wall above me. Carefully I straddle across with the right foot, make a foothold in the snow which has frozen on the ledge on this crevasse wall on the downhill side. I transfer weight to the step. It holds. The insecure spot I am standing on is thus relieved. Each of these movements I instinctively make as exactly as in a rehearsed ballet. I try to make myself lighter. Breathing deeply my whole body identifies itself with the new position, I am for a moment, a long, life-determining moment, weightless. I have pushed myself off from the snow bridge with the left foot, my arms keep me in balance, my right leg supports my body. The left foot can get a grip. Relieved deep-breathing. Very carefully I move — face to the wall — to the right. The right foot gropes for a new hold in the snow, the left boot is placed precisely in the footstep which the right has vacated a few seconds before. The ledge becomes broader, leads obliquely upwards to the outside. I am saved!
In a few minutes I am on the surface — still on the valley side to be sure — but safe. I am a different person, standing there rucksack on my shoulders, ice axe in my hand as if nothing had happened. I hesitate for a moment longer, consider what I did wrong. How did this fall happen? Perhaps my left foot, placed two centimetres above the underlying edge of the crevasse, broke through as I tried to find a hold with the right on the opposite wall.
Down below in the crevasse I had decided to turn round, give up, if I got out unharmed. Now that I am standing on top I continue my ascent without thinking, unconsciously, as if I were computer programmed.
The first glimmer of dawn illuminates Everest's North Col. I look at the time — shortly before seven. How long was I down there? I don't know. The fall into the crevasse is already wiped from my mind. The vow to descend could not have been fundamentally serious. I don't ask myself how I came to deceive myself thus. Determinedly I go back along the lower edge of the crevasse, my mind totally fixed on the summit, as if this perilous incident had only shaken my body, but not that identification which has for weeks constituted my being — my identification with Everest. The fall into the crevasse has put me into a far greater state of alertness than normal. I know this is the only place where I can cross the crevasse which runs right across this 500 metres-high ice wall below the North Col. During my reconnaissance ascent
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four weeks ago I discovered the snow bridge, just 2 metres wide, which today proved almost my undoing. Then it had borne my weight. It may hold up now as well, if I only put weight on the outside edges.
On my solo climb I have no aluminium ladder and no rope, which larger expeditions would use to overcome hindrances of this sort. Two ski sticks and the titanium ice axe are my sole aids. Trance-like, I turn back to the hole I fell through. I shine my light down. Black as night. This time I must watch like hell so as not to make any mistake. On the other side of the crevasse is a steep snow wall. Soon decided, I bend forward and thrust the ski sticks — handles foremost — into the snow up to the discs. High up on the wall above me they now make two firm anchor points, artificial holds. I must cross the hole with a big straddling step and find a hold up there on the other side of the crevasse with the ice axe and ski sticks. Even though I know that on my descent I must find another route, I am immersed in the ascent as if there were nothing more to follow. With a powerful move I swing myself up, make a few quick steps and feel safe again. All these movements are fast but not hurried. Slowly, it becomes day....
Now I am 7,220 metres high. Again I squat down to rest. Haste at this altitude produces exhaustion, and I have most of my day's work already behind me. However, I want to go on as long as I have the strength for it. Far below is the valley end of the Rongbuk Glacier. The view to the west is still clear. To the left under the sky lies Nepal, in front of that a tip of the west shoulder of Everest. In the distance great ranges of mountains fade away. The bright light of the morning dissolves mountains and valleys. The rock bastion of Changtse, also known as the North Peak, falling abruptly to the Rongbuk Glacier, is now a most impressive view. The beautiful pyramid of Pumori looks supernatural and uncanny. Here and only here is God able to manifest himself. To the right the Tibetan plateau loses itself in infinity. The few clouds there, distributed like spiders' webs, are motionless. Up here, too, no wind. Snow only whirls through the air far below on the North Col; it seems to me as if this col is a funnel for alt the winds in Tibet....
The rock slopes on the north side are deeply snowed up, everything looks gentle and flatter than it really is. Up here everything seems peaceful. Now I have to rest at shorter intervals but each time my breathing quickly returns to its former rhythm, and I feel myself recover. This change between going on and stopping, exhaustion and
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returning energy determines my speed. With each metre of ascent this rhythm becomes shorter phased, more constrained. Higher up above, I know from experience, it will be only will power that forces the body from complete lethargy for another step. This sort of snail's pace compels me to rest now for some minutes every 30 paces, with longer rests sitting down every 2 hours. As the air up here contains only a third, of the usual quantity of oxygen I climb as the Sherpas do. I climb and rest, rest and climb. I know that I shall feel comparatively well as soon as I sit down but put off this compelling feeling minute by minute. I must be careful to avoid any harsh irritation of the respiratory tracts. The bronchial tubes and throat are my weakest points. I know it. And already I sense some hoarseness. So I am doubly glad that on this windy mountain hardly a breeze is blowing today. A steep rise now costs me more energy than I thought. From below, going over it by eye, I supposed it would require 5 rest stops. Meanwhile it has become 8 or 9 and I am still not on top. There, where it becomes flatter, something like deliverance awaits me. I don't want to sit down until I am over the rounded top.
While climbing I watch only the foot making the step. Otherwise there is nothing. The air tastes empty, not stale, just empty and rough. My throat hurts. While resting I let myself droop, ski sticks and legs take the weight of my upper body. Lungs heave. For a time I forget everything. Breathing is so strenuous that no power to think remains. Noises from within me drown out all external sounds. Slowly with the throbbing in my throat will power returns.
Onwards. Another 30 paces. How this ridge fools me! Or is it my eyes? Everything seems so close, and is then so far. After a standing rest stop I am over the top. I turn round, let myself drop on the snow. From up here I gaze again and again at the scenery, at the almost end less distance. In the pastel shades of the ranges lies something mystical. It strengthens the impression of distance, the unattainable, as if I had only dreamed of this Tibet, as if I had never been here. But where I am now, I have been already, that much I know.... The altimeter shows 7,360 meters and it is about 9 a.m. I did the stretch to the North Col in two hours. By this ploy I have spared myself a bivouac. Now I am climbing slowly, consciously slowly....
This time there is no one to help carry; no one to prepare my bivouac; no comrade to help me break trail in deep snow and no Sherpa to carry
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my equipment. Nobody. How much easier it is to climb as a pair. The knowledge that someone is standing behind you brings comfort. Not only is solo climbing far more strenuous and dangerous, above all the psychological burden is more than doubled. Everything that lies ahead of me, including the descent — while resting this is all often blown up out of all proportion — weighs me down. Like a snail which carries its home on its back I carry my tent in my rucksack. I shall erect it, sleep in it and take it with me for the next night. I am equipped like a nomad. I can survive for a week. Nevertheless I have scarcely any reserves. After seven days I must be back, nothing can be allowed to go wrong, A second tent would be too heavy, to say nothing of oxygen apparatus which would double my load again. My 18 kilos weighs so heavily at this height that I now stop and stand after every two dozen steps, struggle for breath and forget everything around me.
The stretches between the rest stops become shorter and shorter. Often, very often, I sit down to have a breather. Each time it takes great will-power to stand up again. The knowledge that I have completed my self-inflicted day's stint helps me now. It is as if thinking of that erases energy. 'Still a bit more, you can do it', I say to myself softly by way of encouragement. 'What you climb today, you won't have to climb tomorrow.'...
The sun and the dry air parch me. I remember that I have with me a tiny bottle of Japanese medicinal herb oil, and put two drops of it on my tongue. For a while that brings relief and opens the air ways. Apart from aspirin this herbal remedy is the only medication I carry on the mountain.
The thin air works like a grater on my throat. Each breath leaves a pain in the throat and a feeling of stickiness in the mouth. I take my time setting up the bivouac.
I am tired and glad that I have finally decided to stop. Already the consciousness that no further effort is required works wonders. Was it not myself, but a power from without which drove me on? I feel it to be so. My will returns to normal and I begin to think clearly again. I can perceive again, not merely see. I enjoy a magnificent view to the glacier below me, towards the snow world to the east....
My tiny tent, not 2 kilos in weight and constructed so that it can with stand storms up to 100 kilometres per hour, does not need much space. It is just big enough for me to lie with my knees bent. Nevertheless I
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require a long time to flatten out a site for it. I push the snow back wards and forwards with my boots, stamp it down. I have no shovel. The tent must not be sloping. I have trouble putting it up. Again and again a gust of wind comes and lifts it. Not until I have the tent wall stretched on the light metal tubes do I feel all right. With my ski sticks, ice axe and the only rock piton I have with me I anchor the bivouac cover. Then I lay a thin foam rubber mat on the floor, and, pushing the full rucksack from behind, crawl inside. For a time I just lie there. I listen to the wind hurling ice crystals against the tent wall. It comes in waves, ebbs to and fro and its rhythm keeps me awake. The wind is blowing from the north-west, that is a good sign. I ought to cook, I must. Again a command that absorbs everything in me and about me. But more tired than before from the many small jobs, from the erection of the bivouac, I cannot brace myself to it. For the last time I go out side the tent, fetch snow in my little aluminium pot and peer down into the valley, as if to dodge the all-important work of cooking. It becomes terribly cold. For a time I sit on the knob of rock which I picked out from below as an 'ideal resting place'....
I know of no mountain, no other region from which there is such an infinite view as from Mount Everest across the Tibetan plateau. With this impression I crawl back into 'the constriction of the tent. The space about me shrinks to a cubic meter, and I quickly forget where the tent is standing. Feet in sleeping-bag I begin to cook on my small gas burner. Taking off the rucksack, levelling the camp site, fixing the tent, all that was a hard piece of work after more than ten hours of climbing. Now follow six hours of chores, and these chores are as strenuous as the climbing was before. I eat cheese in small crumbs and nibble a piece of coarse South Tyrolean brown bread. At intervals I fall asleep. When I wake up again the first pot is full of warm water. The soup tastes insipid. The snow has taken ages to melt.
I am surrounded by so much peace and at the same time so power fully aroused that I could embrace anyone. Although I have eaten nothing since this morning I am not hungry. Also I must force myself to drink. The feeling of thirst is less than the fluid requirement of my body. I must drink at least four litres; this is a fundamental standard which I have set myself, like the course of the route and weather studies.
I need so much energy just to fight against fear and inertia. In this I pursue a goal which not only climbers can understand. When shall
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finally be able to live without a goal? Why do I myself stand in the way with my ambition, with my fanaticism? 'Fai la cucina' says someone near me, 'get on with the cooking'. I think again of cooking. Half aloud I talk to myself. The strong feeling I have had for several hours past, of being with an invisible companion, has apparently encouraged me to think that someone else is doing the cooking. I ask myself too how we shall find space to sleep in this tiny tent. I divide the piece of dried meat which I take out of the rucksack into two equal portions. Only when I turn round do I realize that I am alone. Now I am speaking Italian although for me the mother tongue is South Tyrol German....
Once more I make tomato soup, then two pots of Tibetan salt tea. I learned how to make it from the nomads. A handful of herbs to a litre of water, plus two pinches of salt. I must drink a lot, if I am not to become dehydrated. My 'blood could thicken up too much if I do not take enough fluid, so I force myself to melt more snow to drink. The cooking lasts several hours. I just lie there, holding the cooking pot and occasionally pushing a piece of dried meat or Parmesan cheese into my mouth. I have no desire to leave the tent. The storm outside gets up even more. Now grains of ice beat like hail against the tent wall. The poles sing. That is good, for the wind will clear snow from the ridge and drive off the monsoon clouds which were advancing during late afternoon. There is no question of going to sleep. Terrible buffets beat at the tent. Or does my over-wakeful sense only deceive me? Tent floor and sleeping-bag are lifted up time and again. If the storm becomes stronger it will hurl me together with my lodgings into the depths. I must hold the tent fast. Snow powder forces itself through the cracks. Cooking has now become impossible. I lie down, arms in sleeping-bag, and wait. I would like to keep my eyes closed but every time a solid gust of wind comes I open them again involuntarily. Am I still here?
This lying here tensely itself takes energy. The tent walls flutter, the storm whistles, howls, presses. Whirling snow beats on the tent like spray on the bow of a ship.
Once when I look out through the tent flap a torrent of ice crystals beats against me. Nevertheless, no panic wells up. My surroundings are completely hidden, extinguished. The black rock outcrops above me appear ghostly. This storm really threatens to catapult me and the tent in to the depths. The fine ice dust in the tent, the fingers which stick to metal, all that makes me shiver continually. Nevertheless I manage to
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remain fairly warm. Whenever the wind allows I put both arms deep into the sleeping-bag and hold it down from within. Only my face remains free. Once I fall asleep briefly.
The night is tolerable. The storm has abated. In the sleepless intervals endless thoughts go round and round in my mind. I feel this thinking as something tangible. From the back of my mind springs one fragment of thought after another, to and fro, like points of condensed energy, finding no way out, with a life of their own. As if there were an energy in my field of force which is independent of me. Indeed it belongs to me, but exists without my so much as lifting a finger, with out impulse. Even in sleep.
It comes and goes against my will. So it is also with this almost tangible power around me. A spirit breathes regularly in and out, which originates from nothingness and which condenses to nothingness. Only somewhere between these extreme forms do I perceive it, even with my senses....
As the morning dawns sluggishly I notice that the wind is drop ping again. That lends me wings. I manoeuvre the gas burner into the sleeping-bag to warm it up. An hour later I am drinking lukewarm coffee. With that I chew the hard, coarse brown bread from South Tyrol again. All the small chores in the constriction and cold of the tent add up to a bodily ordeal. I work with numb fingers; uninterruptedly, hoar frost trickles from the canvas. To be able to stretch out fully, or to stand up to adjust my clothes is a luxury which I cannot perform in here. Such a tent would weigh at least three times as much as my special construction. Once more I force myself to cook. The dry lumps of snow produce an unpleasant noise between my fingers. It is an eternity before my fist-sized pot is full of water.
For an hour I lie still with my clothes on in the sleeping-bag, drink and doze off. I don't want to look at the time. When I open my eyes I often don't know whether it is morning or evening.
I feel a driving unrest in my innermost being. It is not fear which suddenly seizes me like a big all-embracing hand. It is all the experiences of my mountaineering life which spread out in me and press for activity. The exertion of 30 years of climbing; avalanches, which I have been through, states of exhaustion which have condensed over the decades to a feeling of deep helplessness. You must go on! Time won is energy saved. I know what can happen to me during the next few days,
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and I know how great the grind will become below the summit. This knowledge is now only endurable in activity.
I must go, and yet each smallest chore is an effort. Up here life is brutally racked between exhaustion and will-power; self-conquest becomes a compulsion. Why don't I go down? There is no occasion to. I cannot simply give up without reason. I wanted to make the climb, I still want to. Curiosity,... ambition (I want to be the first) — all these superficial incentives have vanished, gone. Whatever it is that drives me is planted much deeper than I or the magnifying glass of the psychologists can detect. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, step by step I force myself to do something against which my body rebels. At the same time this condition is only bearable in activity. Only a bad omen or the slightest illness would be a strong enough excuse for me to descend.
As the sun strikes my tent and slowly absorbs the hoarfrost from the inner wall I pack up everything again. Bit by bit, in the reverse order to which I must unpack again in the evening. Only two tins of sardines, a gas cartridge as well as half the soup and tea, do I leave behind in a tiny depot, to make my rucksack lighter. I must make do with the remainder of the provisions. It is almost 9 o'clock.
The weather is fine. Tomorrow I shall be on the summit! The moment I crawl out of the tent my confidence is back once more. As if I am breathing cosmic energy. Or is it only the summit with which I identify? The air above me seems to be thin, of that soft blue that looks transparent. The mountains below me I see only as wavy surfaces, a relief in black and white. Take down the tent, fold it up! I command myself. But now these impulses no longer come from the mind, they come again from the gut.
Each drawing of breath fills my lungs with air, fills my being with self-realization. There can be no doubt. I set out on my way....
As always at great height I need a long time today to get the life giving energy circulating again. It is as if the harmony had been disturbed. Through movement — right foot placed, weighted, released, dragged, left foot... — a field of energy develops in my body. With the reduction of anxiety, currents concentrate throughout my body immeasurable, intangible forms of energy....
When I think, the energy at my disposal is quickly used up. With will power alone I can get no farther now but when I disengage my
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brain I am open to a power from without. I am like a hollow hand and experience a regeneration. The balled fist or out-stretched fingers con tribute with exhaustion to helplessness. Only when I am like a hollow hand does an invisible part of my being regenerate, not only in sleep, but also in climbing.
The rhythm of climbing — rest is determined by energy, and this energy determines my rhythm. The stops between climbing are already longer than the 15 paces I make now each time. This is my measure of time, step be step. Time and space are one....
During the ascent I am like a walking corpse. What holds me upright is the world around me: air, sky, earth, the clouds which press in from the west. The experience of proceeding one step at a time. The sense of one's will as something tangible prior to the last two paces before resting. The terrain is easy. Nevertheless it demands my whole attention. That I can stand, that I can proceed, gives me energy to think ahead, to want to get ahead. At least as important as success is joy at one's own skill. It is astonishing how often I have overlooked this part of the pleasure of climbing and have talked solely of loads carried to the summit. High altitude climbing requires a whole range of proficiencies, knowledge and inventiveness. The higher you go, the more man himself bec6mes the problem. Ability also to solve problems of this sort is what makes a good climber. I see the usefulness of climbing not in the further development of technique, rather in the development of the instinct and proficiency of man to extend himself. Learning about his limitations is just as important as his claim to be able to do any thing....
My altimeter shows 7,900 metres. But altimeters have the capacity to become inaccurate up high. Generally they show less than the actual height. It is also possible that the air pressure has altered during the night. I no longer take the altimeter seriously....
I progress so slowly! How long my pauses to breathe are each time I don't know. With the ski sticks I succeed in going 15 paces, then I must rest for several minutes. All strength seems to depend on the lungs. If my lungs are pumped out I must stop. I breathe in through my mouth and expel the air through mouth and nose. And while standing I must use all my will-power to force my lungs to work. Only when they pump regularly does the pain disappear, and I experience something like energy. Now my legs have strength again....
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Meanwhile the mists around me have become so dense that the sun only now and then breaks through. Direction-finding becomes more difficult. Sometimes the breathless silence after resting fills me for a few moments with terror. Have I already gone too far? When the silence becomes unbearable I have to continue climbing. Always obliquely upwards. The pounding in my body and the gasping for breath after each ten paces let me forget the emptiness about me. For a pain-filled eternity there is nothing at all. I exist only as a mind above a body. While resting I literally let myself fall: with my upper body leaning on the ski in sticks, the rucksack tipped on to the nape of my neck, I go through a period of only breathing out and breathing in. Then I perk up again, and with the first step experience the exertion of the next section. Onward!
Sometimes I feel as if I am stuck in the snow. Nevertheless, I don't let myself get discouraged. I move continually to the right up the North Face. The whole face is like a single avalanche zone. New snow trick les down from above and it is sleeting. I tell myself that it is only a temporary disturbance; the snow will consolidate itself. It will hold for two days yet', I say to myself.
The ascending traverse continues endlessly with many but regular pauses. Because of the exertion and concentration I have not noticed that the weather has become so bad that I ought to turn back. All around everything is covered in mist. I squat and rest. Perhaps I should put up the tent. The spot seems too insecure to me. I must bivouac on a ridge. If it snows anymore that means avalanche danger. These are not rational thoughts, but come from the instincts which lie deep within me. For at least another hour I force myself on still further. On a blunt elevation which runs across the face like a giant rib I squat down again. For a while I feel only heaviness, indifference, numbness. Then the clouds tear themselves apart. The valley appears: grey, lightly covered in snow, soon masked again by mists. Not only do the mountains seem flattened, also 'the slopes beneath me and the snow shield in the big couloir. I see all that with the feeling of no longer belonging to the world below. When I notice it is 3 o'clock in the afternoon, it sinks in: I am still about 200 metres to the east of the Norton couloir. When I then peer at the altimeter it shows 8,220 metres. I am disappointed. It's more than that surely! It's not only that I would be delighted to have got as far as 8,400 metres, but that I have exerted myself much more
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than yesterday. It is misty and snows lightly. I can't go any further today. And yet that is an evasion: I do not know whether there is a bivouac place higher up.
I am dead tired. Conscious of this I scarcely make it to the next rocks. Earlier than planned I erect my tent. On a rock bollard, safe from avalanches — snow slides would branch off to the left and right of it — I find a 2 by 2 metre big, almost flat surface. While I make the snow firm I remain standing up. I ask myself how I shall find my way back if the weather stays like this. This doubt and the knowledge of all that can happen condenses into fear. Only when I work am I inwardly at peace. The quite light snowfall, the stationary clouds, the warmth, all that is sinister to me. Is it the monsoon or only anxiety? A fall in temperature is on the way, it seems to me. If I cannot get back for days my reserves will be soon used up. The avalanche danger on the North Face and below the North Col grows with every hour.
An hour later my tent is standing on the rock outcrop. Once again I anchor it with ice axe and ski sticks. I can camp here protected from the wind. Also, if there is a storm there is scarcely any danger. I place the open rucksack in front of the tent flap, and push the mat in. Lumps of snow for cooking lie ready to hand. All is prepared for the long night. A feeling of relief comes over me....
How does one live at this height? I am no longer living, I am only hesitating. When one must do everything alone each manipulation takes a lot of will-power. With each job I notice the effect of the thin air. Speed of thought is greatly diminished and I can make clear decisions only very slowly. They are influenced by my tiredness and breathing difficulties. My windpipe feels as if it were made of wood, and I am aware of a slight irritation of my bronchial tubes.
Although I have not been able to prepare any really hot drinks, because water boils at a lower temperature on account of the height, I still keep on melting snow. Pot after pot. I drink soup and salt tea. It is still too little. I am not very hungry. I must force myself to eat. Also I don't know what to eat without making myself sick. Should I open this tin of sardines now or something else? The slightest effort requires time, energy and attention. All movements are slow and cumbersome. I decide on cheese and bread, chicken in curry sauce, a freeze-dried ready to serve meal which I mix with lukewarm water. I stick the empty packet under the top of my sleeping-bag. I shall need it during
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the night to pee in. It takes me more than half an hour to choke down the insipid pap. Outside it gets darker. The many small tasks in the bivouac take as much energy as hours of regular climbing. The difference between arriving at a prepared camp, to be cared for by Sherpas or comrades, and evening after evening having to make camp and cook for oneself is tremendous. Perhaps it is the essential distinction between the classic big expedition and the modem small expedition. Going to sleep is by itself a big exertion. Up here I cannot simply get into bed, stick my head under the covers and fall asleep....
In the morning I am just as tired as the evening before, and stiff as well. I ask myself whether I really want to go on. I must! Then I use the little strength I have to move my body. I know well enough from experience that I can still carry on for a time, but I try to push every thing aside — to think of nothing, to prolong a deliberate state which allowed me to endure the whole night.
I have only to get going and keep moving in order to have some energy again. The will to make the first decisive move still fails me. When I open the tent flap this morning, it is already day outside. A golden red glow bathes the summit pyramid; to the east, fields of clouds stretch away into the distance. Automatically I remember the monsoon. It is an eternity before I hold the first pot of warm water between my hands. There is ice lying in the tent. I can't eat anything...
Twice whilst melting snow I take my pulse. Way above 100 beats per minute. I feel all in. No more trains of thought. Only commands in the mind. The night was one long ordeal. Painful joints, mucous in my throat. Morning is depressing. On this 20 August I leave everything behind: tent, ski sticks, mat, sleeping-bag. The rucksack too stays in the tent. I take only the camera with me. So just as I am I crawl out of the tent, draw my hood over my head and with bare fingers buckle crampons on to my boots. I retrieve only the titanium axe from the snow. Have I got everything? It must be after 8 o'clock already. Without the load on my back things are easier. But I miss the ski sticks as balancing poles. With the short ice axe in my right hand. I, feel secure, certainly, but for traversing it is a poor substitute.
Only when I climb directly upwards do my gloved left hand and the ice axe fumble about in the snow beneath my head. I proceed on all fours. While resting I distribute my whole weight so that the upper part of my body remains free. I kneel in the snow, lay my arms on the
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rammed-in ice axe and put my head on this cushion. I can still survey the steep rise above me, orientate myself, weigh up difficulties. Fortunately an uninterrupted snow gully runs up the Norton Couloir. So long as I can see and plod I am confident.
Once, before I reach the bottom of the broad trough, I look out for a longer rest possibility. The tent, a yellow speck, appears as through a weak magnifying glass. Is that only the light mist or are all my senses fooled? I remember the place and then climb up the rise above me to the right. Pace by pace. Step by step. Already after a short while I miss the rucksack like a true friend. It has let me down. For two days it has been my partner in conversation, has encouraged me to go on when I have been completely exhausted. Now I talk to the ice axe. But a friend is little enough in this state of exposure. Nevertheless, the voices in the air are there again. I don't ask myself where they come from. I accept them as real. Lack of oxygen and insufficient supply of blood to the brain are bound up with it, are certainly the cause of these irrational experiences which I got to know two years ago during my solo ascent of Nang Parbat. Up here in 1933 Frank Smythe shared his biscuits with an imaginary partner.
The rucksack has indeed been my companion. But without it things go easier, much easier even. If I had to carry something now I would not make any progress. I decided to make the ascent because I knew that on this last day I could leave everything behind. In the driving clouds, following my instinct more than my eyes I look for the route step-by-step. Again the distant memory of this couloir. I live in a sort of half-darkness of mist, clouds, snow drifts and recognition of individual sections. I was here once before! A feeling that even lengthy reflection cannot dispel....
It is getting steeper. When I move I no longer pound like a locomotive, I feel my way ahead hesitatingly. Jerkily I gain height. This climbing is not difficult but downright unpleasant. Often I can find no hold in the snow and must make out the steps by touch. I cannot afford to slip here. For the first time during this solo ascent I feel in danger of falling, like increased gravity. This climbing carefully with great concentration increases my exhaustion. Besides, the mist interferes more and more. All I see is a piece of snow in front of me, now and then a prospect of blue sky above the ridge. Everything goes very slowly. In spite of the enormous strain which each step upwards requires, I am
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still convinced that 1 shall get to the top, which I experience now in a ort of anticipation, like a deliverance.
The knowledge of being half-way there in itself soothes me, gives strength, drives me on. Often I am near the end of my tether. After a dozen paces everything in me screams to stop, sit, breathe. But after a short rest I can go on. Worrying about the bad weather has cost me additional energy. And the ever-recurring question of the descent. But simultaneously in the thickening mist I experience an inspiring hope, something like curiosity outside of time and space. Not the demoralizing despair which a visible and unendingly distant summit often triggers. It is now all about the struggle against my own limitations. This becomes obvious with each step; with each breath it resolves itself. The decision to climb up or down no longer bothers me. It is the irregular rhythm, the weakness in the knees. I go on like a robot. Against all bodily remonstrances I force myself upwards. It must be! I don't think much, I converse with myself, cheer myself up. Where is my rucksack? My second friend the ice axe is still here. We call a halt....
The fancy to have climbed here once already constantly helps me to find the right route. The steep step shot through with brightly coloured rock lies beneath me. I still keep to my right — not so long ago an avalanche went down here. The snow bears. Under the blunt ridge it becomes deeper, my speed accordingly slower. On hands and knees I climb up, completely apathetic. My boots armed with crampons are like anchors in the snow. They hold me....
I guess myself to be near the top but the knife edge goes on forever. During the next three hours I am aware of myself no more. I am one with space and time. Nevertheless I keep moving. Every time the blue sky shows through the thick clouds I believe I see the summit, am there. But still there are snow and stones above me. The few rocks which rise out of the snow are greeny-grey, shot through here and there with brighter streaks. Ghostlike they stir in the wispy clouds. For a long time I traverse upwards, keeping to the right. A steep rock barrier bars the way to the ridge. Only if I can pass the wall to the right shall I get any higher.
Arriving on the crest of the North East Ridge I sense the cornices, stand still. Then I lie down on the snow. Now I am there. The ridge is Hat. Where is the summit? Groaning I stand up again, stamp the snow down. With ice axe, arms and upper body burrowing in the snow, I
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creep on, keeping to the right. Ever upwards.
When I rest I feel utterly lifeless except that my throat bums when I draw breath. Suddenly it becomes brighter. I turn round and can see down into the valley. Right to the bottom where the glacier flows. Breathtaking! Automatically I take a few photographs. Then everything is all grey again. Completely windless.
Once more I must pull myself together. I can scarcely go on" No despair, no happiness, no anxiety. I have not lost the mastery of my feelings, there are actually no more feelings. I consist only of will. After each few metres this too fizzles out in an unending tiredness. Then I think nothing, feel nothing. I let myself fall, just lie there. For an indefinite time I remain completely irresolute. Then I make a few steps again.
At most it can only be another 10 metres up to the top! To the left below me project enormous cornices. For a few moments I spy through a hole in the clouds the North Peak far below me. Then the sky opens out above me too. Oncoming shreds of cloud float past nearby in the light wind. I see the grey of the clouds, the black of the sky and the shining white of the snow surface as one. They belong together like the strips of a flag. I must be there!
Above me nothing but sky. I sense it, although in the mist I see as little of it as the world beneath me. To the right the ridge still goes on up. But perhaps that only seems so, perhaps I deceive myself. No sign of my predecessors.
It is odd that I cannot see the Chinese aluminium survey tripod that has stood on the summit since 1975. Suddenly I am standing in front of it. I take hold of it, grasp it like a friend. It is as if I embrace my opposing force something that absolves and electrifies at the same time. At this moment I breathe deeply.
In the mist, in the driving of the clouds I cannot see at first whether I am really standing on the highest point. It seems almost as if the mountain continues on up to the right. This tripod, which rises now scarcely knee-high out of the snow, triggers off no sort of euphoria in me. It is just there. Because of the great amount of snow on the summit it is much smaller than when I saw it in 1978; pasted over with snow and unreal.
In 1975 the Chinese anchored it on the highest point, ostensibly to carry out exact measurements. Since then they state the height of their
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1980: Messner's self portrait
on the summit of the Everest
after his solo ascent.
Chomolungma as 8,848.12 metres. I don't think of all that up here. This artificial summit erection doesn't seem at all odd. I have arrived, that's all that matters! It's gone 3 o'clock.
Like a zombie, obeying an inner command, I take some photo graphs. A piece of blue sky flies past in the background. Away to the south snow cornices pile up, which seem to me to be higher than my position. I squat down, feeling hard as stone. I want only to rest a while, forget everything. At first there is no relief. I am leached, completely empty. In this emptiness nevertheless something like energy accumulates. I am charging myself up. For many hours I have only used up energy. I have climbed myself to a standstill, now I am experiencing regeneration, a return flow of energy.
A bleached shred of material wrapped round the top of the tripod by wind is scarcely frozen. Absentmindedly I run my fingers over it. I undo it from the metal. Ice and snow remain sticking to it. I should take some more pictures but I cannot brace myself to it. Also I must get
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back down. Half an hour too late means the end of me. At the moment I am not at all disappointed that once again I have no view. I am standing on the highest point on earth for the second time and again can see nothing. That is because it is now completely windless. The light snowflakes dance and all around me the clouds swell as if the earth were pulsating underneath. I still don't know how I have made it but I know that I can't do any more. In my tiredness I am not only as heavy as a corpse, I am incapable of taking anything in. I cannot distinguish above and below.
Again a shred of blue sky goes by with individual ice crystals shining in the sun. The mountains appear far below and quite flat, between the black-white of the valleys. This time I am too late with the camera. Then clouds, mist again; now their primary colour is violet.
Is night coming on already? No, it is 4 p.m. I must be away. No feeling of sublimity. I am too tired for that. And although I don't at this ! moment feel particularly special or happy, I have a hunch that in retrospect it will be comforting, a sort of conclusion. Perhaps a recognition that I too shall have to roll that mythical stone all my life without ever reaching the summit; perhaps I myself am this summit. I am Sisyphus.
After three-quarters of an hour I have the strength to stand up, to stand up for the descent. It has become a bit brighter. I can still see my track. That is comforting. How much easier is the descent of this great mountain! It takes only a fraction of the effort and will-power compared with coming up.
My whole energy is now concentrated in my senses. I find the smell of the snow, the colour of the rocks more intense than in previous days, jump at the occasional sheet lightning out of the clouds far to the west. I want only to get down. Climbing down — once facing inwards — as if I were in flight, I don't ask myself why I undertook all the strain of getting to the summit. I would rather be down already. This long way is a burden.
What disturbs me most is my coughing. It makes my life hell. Even gentle coughing tears at my stomach. Besides, I have not eaten for many hours. I must get to base camp as quickly as possible. Just before the onset of darkness I find my way back to my tent and rucksack.
This night I scarcely sleep at all. Also I cannot bring myself to cool properly. I drink a little snow water. Again I eat nothing. The warff1 flame of the gas burner which buzzes near my face is perhaps only
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comfort me. I don't switch it off although I don't manage to sit up in my sleeping-bag and fetch in snow. Each activity costs now so much energy! Energy which I have derived from climbing, also the stimulus of reaching the summit. Now it fails me. I lie in the tent as if dead. Only the success keeps me alive. I obey the law of inertia. Between waking and sleeping, surrounded by the living dead, the hours slip away without any thoughts. I am not safe yet....
My thinking weaves uninterruptedly further, always at the limit of consciousness. In the early hours I rouse myself with the feeling of having come to a decision, but cannot concentrate. Have I gone mad? Has this emptiness sent me mad? Am I altitude sick? When morning comes I am once again in flight. Without drinking anything I abandon camp. Tent, sleeping-bag everything except the rucksack stays behind. Only the ski sticks do I tear out of the snow. Traversing east I climb diagonally downwards. To the east I look down into the snow basin of the Rongbuk Glacier as I reach the blunt ridge a little above the North Col. No tent stands there. Or is it just snowed up? The new snow is powdery and dry. It flies about when I step on it. It is bitterly cold today.
Not only during the ascent but also during the descent my will power is dulled. The longer I climb the less important the goal seems to me, the more indifferent I become to myself. My attention has diminished, my memory is weakened. My mental fatigue is now greater than the bodily. It is so pleasant to sit doing nothing — and therefore so dangerous. Death through exhaustion is — like death through freezing — a pleasant one. As I traverse the undulating ridge above the North Col I feel as if I am returning from a shadow world.
I make myself carry on through my tiredness, using the knowledge that I have been on the summit. I offer no more resistance, let myself tall at each step. Only I may not remain sitting. Day after day I have endured the loneliness of the undulating snow surface of the North Pace; hour after hour against the wind, the sharp ice grains which swirl with it; for an eternity through the mist which deluded me into thinking each block of rock was a friend. Each breath up there was an ordeal and still I took it as a gift.
Now feeling attacks me of 'having survived', of 'having been saved'. Little by little I step into something which could be called 'place of fulfilment', a 'saving haven'. Like the pilgrims at the sight of the place of
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pilgrimage I forget all the ordeals of the journey....
Bright swathes of mist rush over the North Col. The seething sea of clouds over Solo Khumbu is blindingly white and the curved line of the North-East Ridge stands like a wall between the clear weather in the east and the monsoon in the south. With the certainty of a sleep-walker I descend. But the snow does not please me. It is jellified and makes no firm bond with the firm base. It slides down the smooth ice slabs when I step on it. Presumably I am now also less awake because I expect no serious difficulties in the descent from the North Col. Thus I face them unprepared. Still in a trance, I slip for the first time and immediately lose the ground under my feet. I try to brake, but cannot control the plunge. With the increasing speed of the fall new strengths appear; as always real danger rouses my abilities. And that to a degree that I ask myself from whence I derive so much skill, stamina and energy so quickly.
I stand up again quickly, ram the ice axe firmer and climb down a steep snow wall facing inwards. My carefulness is an instinct: no reflex flinching, no more sudden terror if the snow gives way; only a slow complaisance in my body. In my leaden tiredness there is no sort of hampering nervousness, much more sleep-walking-like knowledge. This sort of feeling of security is directly bound up with tiredness and danger.
The big transverse crevasse into which I fell four days ago during the ascent I by-pass to the right and now stand at the upper edge of a steep slope. Avalanche danger! The morning sun has softened the snow. I experience these alarm signals now as searing pains in my body, not as thoughts in my head.
The precipice drops 400 metres beneath me. Down below, the ice slope runs out into the glacier bottom like the splayed-out feet of the Eiffel Tower. Only brighter or darker shadings indicate crevasses, hollows and domes. I don't hesitate for long, then continue the descent. Soon I have such numb fingers and such tired legs that I sit down in the snow and slide on my backside. I am dehydrated, want to drink. Even the snow sticks like dust in my mouth. I remain sitting. As I rouse myself for a last exertion of strength I move without thinking to the right. A wide open crevasse forces me to dodge. Too late I notice that I should have gone to the left. I can't go back. I can only keep on descending. Suddenly I slip down again unexpectedly, break the motion
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with the ice axe and, as my arms refuse to work, slide down the middle of the avalanche cone to the foot of the wall. I lie there for a while. Then come to on the flat glacier bottom. I kneel, lie down again in the snow, gather myself up again. Groaning I stagger forwards, lose the ground under my feet, fall once more. Once I throw everything away from me, roll my face in the snow, shake myself. I am down. I am happy and at the same time despairing. Then Nena comes over the glacier ridge. She stands there, then comes on. Yes, it is her. I can no longer shout. Everything goes black in front of my eyes. Slowly, very slowly I let myself dissolve. With each further step downwards, with the marker poles in front of me, the first moraines in sight, the whole world stands revealed within me. I see my whole being from without. 'Here' is now somewhere else. I am transparent, made of glass, borne up by the world.
Nena says not a word. Or do I not hear her? Involuntarily I hold my breath, stand still. I have trouble staying in balance. I want to take hold of Nena and just stay there, laugh and cry, to rest myself on her and remain lying on the glacier. Immobile, without a word I stand there, as fragile as a light bulb. A single word would suffice to destroy this glassy delicacy, this strange envelope which is all that is left of me. I can see through all my layers and know that I am also transparent for Nena. Leaning on the ski sticks I stare at her a while. Then I break down. All my reserve is gone. I weep. It is as if all horizons, all boundaries were broken. Everything is revealed, all emotions are released. How far must I go before I finally break in two? I myself am now the open book. The more I let myself go the more it forces me to my knees.
From Reinhold Messner,
Crosswood Press, Ramsbury, Wilkshire,
U.K.
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Painting : Shakti, Auroville
Adrift:
Seventy-six Days Lost at Sea
In 1980, American-born Steven Callahan, age twenty-nine, sold everything he had to design and build a small cruising ship that would, he hoped, take him across the Atlantic Ocean to England. Steven had been sailing since the age of twelve. "I fell in love with sailing instantly," he writes, "everything about it felt right." Steven named his twenty-one foot long boat Napoleon Solo.
Not many boats this size had made the crossing, but there had been a few as small as 12 feet. "I was not interested in setting a record," he says. "For me the crossing was more of an inner voyage and a pilgrimage of sorts... It was my soul that called me to this pilgrimage... I figured that if I made it to England safely I'd have accomplished every major goal I'd ever set for myself." From England he planned to measure Solo's performance in a single-handed race called the Mini-transat that would carry him from England to Antigua in the Caribbean. Many of Steven's friends could not understand why he wanted to undertake such a voyage, why he couldn't test himself without crossing the Atlantic. Before setting out, he wrote:
I wish I could describe the feeling of being at sea, the anguish, frustration, and fear, the beauty that accompanies threatening spectacles, the spiritual communion with creatures in whose domain I sail. There is a magnificent intensity in life that comes when we are not in control but are only reacting, living, surviving. I am not a religious man per se... not in line with any particular church or philosophy. But for me, to go to sea is to get a glimpse of God. At sea I am reminded of my insignificance — of all men's insignificance. It is a wonderful feeling to be so humbled.
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The Atlantic crossing, with one friend as the only crew, was exhilarating and successful. "Gales, fast runs, whales, dolphins. It was the stuff adventure is made of. And as we approached the coast of England, I felt I was ending the whole experience that had begun at my birth, and beginning a new one."
After a few days' rest, Steven says goodbye to his friend and sets „ out alone on the transatlantic race. But the winds soon blow into a gale, and three days out of England, Solo runs into some floating debris in high seas, and he is forced to drop out of the race and sail to Spain for repairs. It is now late December and he is tempted to spend the rest of the winter in warm Tenerife in the Canary Islands. "I am caught in the sailor's inevitable dilemma. .. You need ports and often can't wait to get to the next. Then when you are in port, you can't wait to get back to sea again. After a few nights in a dry bed, the ocean calls, and you follow her. You need mother earth, but you love the sea."
So, on the night of January 29, he sets out from Tenerife alone, for the Caribbean, a full ocean away. The first week is a sailor's dream, with gentle seas and a wind that speeds him towards Antigua. But on February 4 a gale sets in and grows fiercer...
What happens that night, and for the next seventy-six days, is the story of Adrift. The book was constructed by Steven Callahan from a log he kept during his ordeal. He dedicates Adrift "to people everywhere who know, have known, or will know suffering, desperation, or loneliness."
Disaster at sea can happen in a moment, without warning, or it can come after long days of anticipation and fear. It does not always come when the sea is fiercest but may spring when waters lie as flat and imperturbable as a sheet of iron. Sailors may be struck down at any time, in calm or in storm, but the sea does not do it for hate or spite. She has no wrath to vent. Nor does she have a hand of kindness to extend. She is merely there, immense, powerful and indifferent. I do not resent her indifference, or my comparative insignificance. Indeed, it is one of the main reasons I like to sail: the sea makes the insignificance of my own small self and of all humanity so poignant....
It is about 22:30 Greenwich Mean Time. The moon hangs full,
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white and motionless, undisturbed by the tempest and the tumultuous sea. If conditions continue to worsen, I will have to head more southerly. For the time being, I can do nothing more, so I lie down to rest. At 23:00 I get up and undress. I lie down again clothed only in a T-shirt. A watch circles my wrist, and around my neck is a slab of whale tooth on a string. It is the most I will wear the next two and a half months.
My boat slews around the rushing peaks, her keel clinging to the slopes like a mountain goat, her port side pressed down against the black, rolling ocean. I lie on my bunk, slung upon the lee canvas, hanging as if in a hammock.
BANG! A deafening explosion blankets the subtler sounds of torn wood fibre and rush of sea. I jump up. Water thunders over me as if I've suddenly been thrown into the path of a rampaging river. Forward, aft — where does it come from? Is half of the side gone? No time. I fumble with the knife I have sheathed by the chart table. Already the water is waist deep. The nose of the boat is dipping down. Solo comes to a halt as she begins a sickening dive. She's going down, down! My mind barks orders. Free the emergency package. My soul screams. You've lost her! I hold my breath, submerge, slash at the tie downs that secure my emergency duffel. My heart is a pounding pile driver. The heavy work wrings the air from my lungs and my mind battles with my limbs for the opportunity to breathe. Terminal darkness and chaos surround me. Get out, she's going down! In one rhythmic movement I rocket upward, thrust the hatch forward, and catapult my shaking body onto the deck, leaving my package of hope behind.
Less than thirty seconds have elapsed since impact. The bow points toward its grave at a hesitating low angle and the sea washes about my ankles. I cut the tie-downs that secure the raft canister. Thoughts flash about me like echoes in a cave. Perhaps I have waited too long. Perhaps it is time to die. Going down...die...lost without trace. I recall the life raft instructions: throw the bulky hundred pounds overboard before inflation. Who can manoeuvre such weight in the middle of a bucking circus ride? No time, quickly — she's going down! I yank. The first pull, then the second.— nothing, nothing! This is it, the end of my life. Soon, it will come soon. I scream at the stubborn canister. "Come on, you bastard!" The third pull comes up hard, and she blows with a bursting static shush. A wave sweeps over the entire deck, and I simply float the raft off. It thrashes about on the end of its painter. Solo
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has been transformed from a proper little ship to a submerged wreck in about one minute. I dive into the raft with the knife clenched in my teeth, buccaneer style, noticing that the movie camera mounted on the aft pulpit has been turned on. Its red eye winks at me. Who is directing this film? He isn't much on lighting but his flair for the dramatic is impressive.
Unmoving and unconcerned, the moon looks down upon us. Its lunar face is eclipsed by wisps of cloud that waft across it, dimming the shadow of Solo's death. My instincts and training have carried me through the motions of survival, but now, as I have a moment to reflect, the full impact of the crash throbs in my head. Never have all of my senses seemed so sharp. My emotions are an incomprehensible mix. There is a wailing anguish that mourns the loss of my boat. There is a deep disappointment in myself for my failures. Overshadowing it all is the stark realization that what I think and feel will not matter much longer. My body shakes with cold. I am too far from civilization to have any hope of rescue.
The raft, which Steven nicknames "Rubber Duckey" still remains tied by a long rope to the floundering Solo. He hopes to be able to get back' inside for extra food and supplies.
February 5, Day 1
I do not think the Atlantic has emptier waters. I am about 450 miles ? north of the Cape Verde Islands, but they stand across the wind. I can drift only in the direction she blows. Downwind, 450 miles separate me from the nearest shipping lanes. Caribbean islands are the closest possible landfall, eighteen hundred nautical miles away. Do not think of it. Plan for daylight, instead. I have hope if the raft lasts. Will it last? The sea continues to attack. It does not always give warning. Often the curl develops just before it strikes. The roar accompanies the crash, beating the raft, ripping at it.
I hear a growl a long way off, toward the heart of the storm. It builds like a crescendo, growing louder and louder until it consumes all of the air around me. The fist of Neptune strikes, and with its blast the raft is shot to a staggering halt. It squawks and screams, and then there is peace, as though we have passed into the realm of the afterlife where we cannot be further tortured.
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Quickly I yank open the observation port and stick my head out. Solo's jib is still snapping and her rudder clapping, but I am drifting away. Her electrics have fused together and the strobe light on the top of her mast blinks goodbye to me. I watch for a long time as the flashes of light become visible less often, knowing it is the last I will see of her, feeling as if I have lost a friend and a part of myself. An occasional flash appears, and then nothing. She is lost in the raging sea.
I pull up the line that had tied me to my friend, my hope for food and water and clothing....
I feel so vulnerable. There are no backup systems remaining, no place to bail out to, no more second chances. Mentally and physically, I feel as if all of the protection had been peeled away from my nerves and they lie completely exposed.
February 6, Day 2
I rip open a tin of peanuts and eat them slowly, savouring each nut. It is February 6, my birthday. This is not quite the meal I had planned. I have lived a nice, round thirty years. What have I to show for it? I write my own epitaph.
STEVEN CALLAHAN
FEBRUARY 6, 1952 — FEBRUARY 6, 1982
Dreamed
Drew Pictures
Built Boats
Died
All that I have accomplished in life seems very trite and offers as little comfort as the bare horizon outside.
For three days the gale howls. Waves glitter in the sun and the wind blows white beards of froth down their blue chests. During the day the sun brings a small spot of warmth to my frigid world. At night the wind and sea rear up more viciously. Even in these, subtropical conditions, the water temperature falls below sixty-five degrees, so I risk dying from hypothermia before the sun rises. Naked and sore, wrapped in clammy foil and a sodden sleeping bag, I shiver and can sleep only in snatches, as my whole world rumbles and shakes. Waves breaking nearby and on the raft actually sound like cannon shot.
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Continually drenched with salt water, my skin has broken out with hundreds of boils. They multiply quickly under my wet T-shirt and sleeping bag. Gouges and abrasions cover my lower spine, butt, and knees. They are foul, but I suppose they are clean. I'm often awakened with the searing pain of salt burning their putrid tenderness. The raft is too small for me to stretch out in, so I must rest curled up on my side. At least this helps to keep the cuts dry....
I begin to keep notes on my state of health, the raft's condition, and I the quantity of food and water. I also keep a navigational record and begin to write a log. 'I have lost all but my past, my friends, and of course the shirt off my back. Ho, ho. Will I make it? I don't know.' I write as steadily as I can on dime-store three-by-five-inch pads. Even this simple task takes great effort, as the raft continually lurches about. I take the notes out only when I'm sure that the raft will not be capsized or flooded. When I am done, I double-bag them in plastic, each bag carefully tied, combine them with my survival manual in another plastic bag, and put them in my equipment duffel.
Presuming that the raft stays intact, and I acquire no additional food or water, I can last at best until February 22, fourteen more days. I may just reach the shipping lanes, where I will have a remote chance of being spotted. Dehydration will take its toll by that time. My tongue will swell until it fills my mouth and then will blacken. My eyes will be sucked deeply into my head. Death will knock at the door to my delirious mind.
An eternity exist between the click of each second. I remind myself that time does not stand still. The seconds will stack up like poker chips. Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days. Time will pass. In months I will look back on this hell from a comfortable seat in the future ... perhaps, if I am lucky.
Desperation shakes me. I want to cry but I scold myself. Hold it back. Choke it down. You cannot afford the luxury of water wept away. I bite my lips, close my eyes, and weep within. Survival, concentrate on survival. Clear sea stretches for two miles under me. No life is visible in the depths from which I might score a meal. It is too rough to use the solar stills in the water. For now I can hope only to be found.
February 17, Day 13
The raft is lifted and thrown to the side as if kicked by a giant's boot. A
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shark's raking skin scrapes a squeak from it as I leap from slumber. 'Keep off the bottom!' I yell at myself as I pull the cushion and sleeping bag close to the opening. I perch as lightly as possible upon it. Peering into the night, I grasp the spear gun. He's on the other side. I must wait until he comes to the opening. A fin breaks the water in a quick swirl of phosphorescent fire and darts behind the raft, circling in to strike again. A flicker of light in the black sea shows me he is below, and I jab with a splash. Nothing. Damn! The splash may entice him to attack more viciously. Again the fin cuts the surface. The shark smashes into the raft with a rasping blow. I strike at the flicker. Hit! The water erupts, the dark fin shoots out and around and then is gone. Where is he? My heart's pounding breaks the silence. It beats across the still black waters to the stars. I wait....
In my thirteen days adrift, I have eaten only three pounds of food. My stomach is in knots, but starvation is more subtle than simply increasing pain. My movements are slower, more fatiguing. The fat is gone. Now my muscles feed on themselves. Visions of food snap at me like whips. I feel little else.
Several triggerfish swim up from astern as the breeze builds. They come up broadside. Once again I aim and fire. The spear strikes and drives through. I yank the impaled fish aboard. Its tight round mouth belches a clicking croak. Its eyes roll wildly. The stiff, rough body can only flap its fins in protest. Food! Lowering my head I chant, 'Food, I have food.' I try to strike it unconscious with my flare gun. It's like clubbing concrete. Powerful thrusts with my knife finally penetrate the trigger's armoured skin. Its eyes flash, its fins frantically wave about, its throat cracks, and finally it is dead. My eyes fill with tears. I weep for my fish, for me, for the state of my desperation. Then I feed on its bitter meat.
February 18, Day 14
I'm getting to love dreaming of food, rather than hating its tempting vision. Dreaming is the closest I can get to it, and being close to nourishment and drink is better than nothing.
I have become both the real and the dream. I now see many worlds surrounding me: the past, present, and future; the conscious and unconscious; the tangible and the imagined. I try to convince myself that it is only the present that is hellish, that all of the other worlds are
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untouchable, securely unimprisonable. I want desperately to keep these other worlds safe from pain and depression so that I can escape to them whenever I wish. My own propaganda is intoxicating, but I know reality's sharp, penetrating, dominating qualities. Steven Callahan is not free to leave. Today things flow smoothly, but tomorrow waves may break, crush my spirit, and wash away my dreams.
Steven learns to spear the large dorado fish that follow his raft. He cuts them into strips and hangs them from a rope to dry. Although they do not supply all of the nourishment a body needs, the dorados keep him from starvation. But a constant worry is that the heavy fish will push the spear into the rubber raft.
February 21, Day 17
Ship ho! I glance up and there she is, close by, a sweetly lined red hulled freighter with white whale strake and shapely bow slicing her way right for me. It's incredible that I haven't seen her sooner. They must have spotted the raft and are headed over to check it out. I load the flare pistol to satisfy their curiosity. As it shoots skyward and pops, the vessel cuts the distance between us at twelve to fourteen knots. The flare isn't as bright as it would be at night, but the crew can't miss its smoke and flame hanging in the air. If anyone is looking, it is impossible for him not to see me. The raft isn't disappearing into any troughs, and I have the full ship continually in view. I light an orange smoke flare that hisses and wafts a tawny genie down-wind, close to the water. My eyes search the bridge and deck for signs of life. The ship is now so close that if a deckhand scurries into view I will be able to tell what he is wearing. But the only thing moving is the ship itself. I pull in the man-overboard pole, extend it high over my head, and wave frantically. I shriek above the soft murmur of the raft gliding over the water, the shush of the ship's bow wave, and the beat of her engine. 'Yeoh! Here! Here! Bloody hell can't you see!' I yell as loud as I can until my throat cracks. I know that my voice must be drowned out by shipboard clamour. Still, it is a relief to break the silence. She steams on. Such a lovely ship...too bad. Within twenty minutes she has disappeared over the horizon.
How many others can possibly pass so close? Most likely none. How many will pass that I will not see? How many won't see me?...
The freedom of the sea lures men, yet freedom does not come free.
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Its cost is the loss of the security of life on land. When a storm is brewing, the sailor cannot simply park his ship and walk away from it. He cannot hide within stone walls until the whole thing blows over. There is no freedom from nature, the power that binds even the dead together. Sailors are exposed to nature's beauty and her ugliness more intensely than most men ashore. I have chosen the sailor's life to escape society's restrictions and I have sacrificed its protection. I have chosen freedom and have paid the price.
February 26, Day 22
My life has become a composition of multilayered realities — day dreams, night dreams, and the seemingly endless physical struggle.
I keep trying to believe that all of these realities are equal. Perhaps they are, in some ultimate, sense, but it becomes increasingly obvious that in the survival world my physical self and my instincts are the ringmasters that whip all of my realities into place and control their motions. My dreams and daydreams are filled with images of what my body requires and of how to escape from this physical hell. Since I have gotten the still to work and have learned how to fish more efficiently, there has been little to do but save energy, wait, and dream. Slowly, though, I find I am becoming more starved and desperate. My equipment is deteriorating.
I must work harder and longer each day to weave a world in which I can live. The script sounds simple enough: hang on, ration food and water, fish, and tend the still. But each little nuance of my role takes on profound significance. If I keep watch too closely, I will tire and be no good for fishing, tending the still, or other essential tasks. Yet every moment that I don't have my eyes on the horizon is a moment when a ship may pass me. If I use both stills now, I may be able to quench my thirst and keep myself in better shape for keeping watch and doing jobs, but if they both wear out I will die of thirst. My mind applauds some of my performances while my body boos, and vice versa. It is a constant struggle to keep control, self-discipline, ,to maintain a course of action that will best ensure survival, because I can't be sure what that course is. Is my command making the right decisions? More often that not, all I can tell myself is 'You're doing the best you can.'
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March 3, Day 27
I save the bulk of my water ration for dessert. Since I have rebuilt my stock, I can afford to drink a half pint during the day and three-quarters of a pint at dinner, and still have a couple of ounces for the night. I slowly roll a mouthful around on my tongue until the water is absorbed rather than swallowed. When I return, ice-cream will be no more pleasurable.
In these moments of peace, deprivation seems a strange sort of gift. I find food in a couple hours of fishing each day, and I seek shelter in a rubber tent. How unnecessarily complicated my past life seems. For the first time, I clearly see a vast difference between human needs and human wants. Before this voyage, I always had what I needed — food, shelter, clothing, and companionship — yet I was often dissatisfied when I didn't get everything I wanted, when people didn't meet my expectations, when a goal was thwarted, or when I couldn't acquire some material goody. My plight has given me a strange kind of wealth, the most important kind. I value each moment that is not spent in pain, desperation, hunger, thirst, or loneliness. Even here, there is richness all around me. As I look out of the raft, I see God's face in the smooth waves, His grace in the dorado's swim, feel His breath against my cheek as it sweeps down from the sky. I see that all of creation is made in His image. Yet despite His constant company, I need more. I need more than food and drink. I need to feel the company of other human spirits. I need to find more than a moment of tranquillity, faith, and love. A ship. Yes, I still need a ship.
...and water. There are two solar stills aboard Ducky, but neither works properly. The pure water is contaminated with salty sea water. Finally Steven decides to sacrifice one still and dismantles it in order to discover how it should work. He is then able to repair the remaining still, which starts producing a few hundred millilitres of water per day. Until the end of the voyage, his physical endurance and mental ingenuity will be severely and constantly tested by the need for pure water
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March 19, Day 43
The day before, Steven had speared and killed a dorado which then slipped overboard and sank into the sea...
I cannot stop mourning the big dorado that I futilely slew last evening. I try to convince myself that my depression comes only from the fact that I am in desperate need of meat, but my sense of loss is not solely pragmatic. Ineffectual attempts to catch fish are nothing new, and I think little of them. I feel emotionally devastated. The dorados have become much more than food to me. They are even more than pets. I look upon them as equals — in many ways as my superiors. Their flesh keeps me alive. Their spirits keep me company. Their attacks and their resistance to the hunt make them worthy opponents, as well as friends. I am thankful for their meat and companionship and fearful of their power. I wonder if my deep respect for them is related to my Indian ancestors' respect for all natural forces. It is strange how killing animals can sometimes inspire such worship of them. I can justify killing the dorados in order to save my own life, but even that is getting more difficult. Last night's killing was to no one's advantage. I have robbed the fish of life and myself of the fish's spirit. I feel as if I have gravely sinned, that this is a very bad omen. Such waste. How I hate waste. Still, I realize that if I am to survive I must continue to fish. I must pre pare myself to kill again this morning.
Soon Steven has speared a very large dorado. But as if proving his forebodings true, the fish drives the spear tip into the raft. Air hisses from a gaping hole ten centimetres long. The next eight days are a sleepless nightmare as Steven devises one patch after another and desperately pumps air into Ducky to keep it above water. None of the patches holds for very long.
March 27, Day 51
At 9.00 A.M. the patch blows again. The stock of dorados droops against the wet floor of the raft, turning rancid. Hundreds of sores now fester and eat into my nerves, more breaking and oozing each hour. I've slept for only four hours or less each night of the past week, eaten
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less than two pounds of food a day, and worked almost non-stop. I'm beginning to panic.
Got to stop it! I've got to get it sealed! Can't. Arms too tired to move. Shut up! Got to. No choice. Move, arms, move! I try to order my beaten and bedraggled body back into action. I crawl forward, relash the patch. She blows. I lash it again. She blows! Time and again the sea throws the raft down. Water smashes against me, flinging me into the torrent that sloshes in and out. Stabbing spasms, twinging, throbbing, convulsive cramping, piercing pain. I cannot take it, I won't ; make it. Stop it! Harder, got to pull the strings tighter. Got to try. World is reeling. Words echoing. Forgotten memories. Hands trembling, skin breaking. Pull harder, harder! Groaning, gasping. Pump. How many? Don't know, can't count. Three hundred maybe. Top tube, too, another ninety. My arms are being torn from their sockets, and I am being flayed alive. A wave crashes in. My world jumps and shakes. She blows. Tie her up again, harder. Get it to stick. The still hangs lifeless over the bow. Pump up the tube. So long, now, ever so long. Two hundred eighty. Rest. O.K., squeeze. Two eighty-one...She blows!
Collapse, can't move. My left arm is searing. With my right, I drag it up onto my chest. Night is here. So very cold, but I do not shiver. I'm lifeless, floating like a wet rag along the top of the sea. Can't move any more. Numb. The end is come. ;,
Breathing hard. Gasping! Yes, I guess I am. Eight days I've been s trying to patch the leak. No more, please, no more. The ocean rolls me about, sloshes over me, beats me, but I do not resist, hardly feel it. Tired, so very tired. Heaven, Nirvana, Moksa...where are they? Can't see them, don't feel them. Only the dark. Is this illusion or real? Aah, word games of the religious and philosophical. Words aren't real. Hours? Yes. Fifty-one days gone and some hours left. I've stumbled, fallen, lost. Why, why, why? Eternity? Yes, the ocean rolls on. I roll on. No. Not I. Carbon, water, energy, love. They go on. Skin and bones of the universe, of God, flexing, always moving. I am lost, lost without trace.
An immense energy pulls at my mind, as if I am imploding within my body. A dark pit widens, surrounding me. I'm frightened, so frightened. My eyes well with tears, pulling me away from the emptiness. Sobbing with rage, pity, and self-pity, clawing at the slope, struggling to crawl out, losing grip, slipping deeper. Hysterical wailing, laments,
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lost hope. I scrape to catch hold of something, but nothing is there. Darkness widening, closing in. How many eyes have seen like mine? I feel them, all around me, millions of faces, whispering, crowding in, calling, 'Come, it is time.'
March 28, Day 52
The ghosts reach from the darkness and pull me down. I'm falling. It's come.
'No!' I yell out. 'Can't! Won't!' Can't let go. Tears stream down my face and mix with the sea swilling around my body. Will die, and soon... Find the answer. Want to...yes! That's it, want to live. Despite agony and horror. Despite what lies ahead. I convulse, sobbing, 'I want to LIVE, to LIVE to LIVE!'
Can't.
Must! Damn it, open your eyes. They blink, heavy with fatigue. Try to focus.
Not good enough.
Quit your bitching! Do it! Grab ahold, arms. PUSH! Now again, PUSH! Good. Up a bit. Won't drown now. Breath is heavy. O.K., steady, boy. Head sways, eyes blur. A wave comes in. Cool. Keep your own cool, too. Stop that whining! Get that bag over you. Do it! All right. Rest now. You're out of it, for now. You're O.K. You hear me?
Yes.
O.K.
Now what? Next time it won't be so easy.
Shut up! You've got to come up with something. Got to get warm, got to rest, got to think. Maybe one chance left. Maybe not even that. It's got to work first time. If it doesn't, you WILL DIE! Will Die, Will Die, will die. Yes. I must make this one good.
Go back. Identify the problem. Use what you've learned.
Steven forces his wandering mind to concentrate. He runs over in his head all the equipment he still has available...
First aid kit, bandages, scissors, twine, line. And all the stuff I've already used — spoon, fork, radar refl... The fork! Of course! Why you stupid bloody idiot! 'It's the fork!'
Adrenalin begins to surge through my veins. Like magic, I get the
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strength to bundle up and try to regain my lost body heat. I eat whatever fish is in sight, wait, and plan. I lie awake all night planning.
On the edge of death, he has received the inspiration that will save his life. Within a few hours he has constructed a new patch, using the fork to hold it in place. It works!
The grey sky and tormented sea continue to cast a pall over my surroundings. My body hungers, thirsts, and is in constant pain. But I feel great! I have finally succeeded!
April 8, Day 63
I continually wonder how much more a body can take. I don't consider suicide— not now, after all I have come through — but I can under stand how others might see it as a reasonable option in these circum stances. For me it is always easier to struggle on. To give myself courage, I tell myself that my hell could be worse, that it might get worse and I must prepare for that. My body is certain to deteriorate further. I tell myself that I can handle it. Compared to what others have been through, I'm fortunate. I tell myself these things over and over, building up fortitude, but parts of my body feel as if they are in flames, The fire from the sores on my back, butt, and legs shrieks upward and the flames burst forth into my skull. In a moment my spirit is in ashes and tears well in my eyes. They are not enough to even dampen the conflagration....
How easy it would be to let go and die, to undergo the transformation into other bits of the universe, to be eaten by fish, to become fish. A dorado slips out and I graze the feathery flip of her tail. The little flirt immediately returns. But I can't let go. People are my tribe. It should be easy to surrender to the dorados or the sea, but it is not.
I measure my latitude with my [makeshift] sextant. About eighteen degrees. How accurate is it? I know now I will never last another twenty days. If I am too far north, I am done for. If I could manage the wind, I would make it take me south.
April 12, Day 67
Often when I have gone offshore, I have found myself to be somewhat schizophrenic, though not dysfunctional. I see myself divide into three
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basic parts: physical, emotional, and rational....
I instinctively rely on my rational self to take command over the fear and pain. This tendency is increasing as my voyage lengthens. The lines that stretch between my commanding rational self and my frightened emotional and vulnerable physical selves is getting tighter and tighter. My rational commander relies on hope, dreams, and cynical jokes to relieve the tension in the rest of me....
Maintaining discipline becomes more difficult each day. My fear some and fearful crew mutter mutinous misgivings within the fo'c's'le of my head. Their spokesman yells at me.
'Water, Captain! We need more water. Would you have us die here, so close to port? What is a pint or two? We'll soon be in port. We can surely spare a pint.'
'Shut up!' I order. 'We don't know how close we are. Might have to last to the Bahamas. Now, get back to work.'
'But, Captain-'
'You heard me. You've got to stay on ration.'
They gather together, mumbling among themselves, greedily eyeing the bags of water dangling from Ducky's bulwarks. We are shabby, almost done for. Legs already collapsed. Torso barely holds head up. Empty as a tin drum. Only arms have any strength left. It is indeed pitiful. Perhaps the loss of a pint would not hurt. No, I must maintain order. 'Back to work,' I say. 'You can make it.'
Yet I feel swayed more and more by my body's demands, feel stretched so tight between my body, mind, and spirit that I might snap at any moment. The solar still has another hole in it, and the distillate is more often polluted with salt water. I can detect less and less often when it is reasonably unsalty. I may go mad at any time. Mutiny will mean the end. I know I am close to land. I must be. I must convince us all.
We've been over the continental shelf for four days. One of my small charts shows the shelf about 120 miles to the east of the West Indies. I should see the tall, green slopes of an-island, if my sextant is correct. I should hit Antigua — ironically, my original destination. But who knows? I could be hundreds of miles off. This triangle of pencils may be a foolish bit of junk. The chart could be grossly inaccurate. I spend endless hours scanning the horizon for a cloud shape that does not move, searching the sky for a long wisp of cloud that might suggest
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human flight. Nothing.... I'm assuming that I'm within two hundred miles of my calculated position, but if I've been off by as little as five miles a day, I could be four hundred miles away from where I hope I am — another eight or even fifteen days. 'Water, Captain. Please? Water.'
April 20, Day 75
I arise to survey the black waters, which occasionally flash with phosphorescent lines from a breaking wave or the flight of a fish. A soft glow looms just to the south of dead ahead. And there, just to the north, is another. A fishing fleet? They do not move. My God, these are no ships! It is the night-time halo of land that I detect! Standing, I glimpse a flip of light from the side. A lighthouse beam just over the horizon, sweeps a wide bar of light like a club beating out a rhythm — flash, pause , flash-flash, rest; flash, pause, flash-flash. It is land. 'Land!' I shout. 'Land ho!' I'm dancing up and down, flinging my arms about, as , if hugging an invisible companion. I can't believe it!
This calls for a real celebration! Break out the drinks! In big, healthy I swallows, I down two pints. I swagger and feel as light-headed as if it ; were pure alcohol. I look out time and again to confirm that this is no illusion. I pinch myself. Ouch! Yes, and I have gotten the water to my lips and down my throat, which I've never been able to do in a dream. No, it isn't any dream. Oh real, how real! I bounce about like an idiot. I'm having quite a time.
April 21, Day 76
Dawn of the seventy-sixth day arrives. I can't believe the rich panorama that meets my eyes. It is full of green. After months of little other than blue sky, blue fish, and blue sea, the brilliant, verdant green is overwhelming. It is not just the rim of one island that is ahead, as I had expected. To the south a mountainous island as lush as Eden juts out of the sea and reaches up toward the clouds. To the north is another island with a high peak. Directly ahead is a flat-topped isle — no vague out line but in full living colour. I'm five to ten miles out and headed right for the centre....
As each wave passes, I hear something new. RRrrr... RRrr... It grows louder. An engine! I leap to my knees. Coming from the island, a couple of hundred yards away, a sharp white bow, flared out at the rail,
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pitches forward against a wave and then crashes down with a splash. The boat climbs and falls, getting closer and closer. It's small, maybe twenty feet, and is made of rough-hewn wood painted white, with a green stripe around the gunwale. Three incredulous dark faces peer toward me. Jumping to my feet, I wave to them and yell, 'Hello!' They wave back. This time I have definitely been seen. I am saved! I can't believe it, just can't believe... Nearly over. No reef crossing, no anxious awaiting of an airplane. Two of the men are golden mahogany in colour, and the third is black. The one at the helm wears a floppy straw hat with a wide brim that flaps up and down. His T-shirt flags out behind him as he rounds his boat ahead of me and slides to a halt. The three of them are about my age and seem perplexed as they loudly babble to one another in a strange tongue. It's been almost three months since I've heard another human voice.
'Hablar espanol?' I yell.
'No, no!' What is it that they say? 'Parlez-vous français?' I can't make out their reply. They all talk at the same time. I motion to the islands. 'What islands?'
'Aaah.' They seem to get it. 'Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe.'
We sit in our tiny boats, rising and falling on the waves, only yards apart. For several moments we stop talking and stare at one another, not knowing quite what to say. Finally they ask me, 'Whatch you doing, man? Whatch you want?'
'I'm on the sea for seventy-six days.' They turn to each other, chattering away loudly. Perhaps they think I embarked from Europe in Rubber Ducky III as a stunt. 'Do you have any fruit?' I ask.
'No, we have nothing like that with us.' As if confused and not knowing what they should do, the ebony one asks instead, 'You want to go to the island now?'
Yes, oh, definitely yes, I think, but I say nothing immediately. Their boat rolls toward me and then away, empty of fish. The present, the past, and the immediate future suddenly seem to fit together in some inexplicable way. I know that my struggle is ever. The door to my escape has been fortuitously flung open by these fishermen. They are offering me the greatest gift possible: life itself. I feel as if I have struggled with a most demanding puzzle, and after fumbling for the key piece for a long time, it has fallen into my fingers. For the first time in two and a half months, my feelings, body, and mind are of one piece.
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The frigates hover high above, drawn to me by my dorados and the flying fish on which they both feed. These fishermen saw the birds, knew there were fish here, and came to find them. They found me; but not me instead of their fish, me and their fish. Dorados. They have sustained me and have been my friends. They nearly killed me, too, and now they are my salvation. I'm delivered to the hands of fishermen, my brothers of the sea. They rely on her just as I have. Their hooks, barbs, and bludgeons are similar to my own. Their clothing is as simple. Perhaps their lives are as poor. The puzzle is nearly finished. It is time to fit the last piece.
'No, I'm O.K. I have plenty of water. I can wait. You fish. Fish!' I yell as if reaching a revelation. 'Plenty of fish, big fish, best fish in the sea!' They look at each other, talking. I urge them. 'Plenty of fish here, you must fish!'
One bends over the engine and gives the lines a yank. The boat leaps forward. They bait six-inch hooks with silvery fish that look like flyers without big wings. Several lines are tossed overboard, and in a moment, amidst tangled Creole yells and flailing arms, the engine is cut. One of them gives a heave, and a huge dorado jumps through the air in a wide arc and lands with a thud in the bottom of the boat. They roar off again, and before they've gone two hundred yards they stop and yank two more fat fish aboard. Their yelling never stops. Their cacophonous Creole becomes more jumbled and wild, as if short-circuiting from the overload of energy in the fishing frenzy. Repeatedly they open the throttle and the boat leaps forward. They bait frantically, cast out hooks, give their lines a jerk, and stop. The stem wave rushes up, lifts and pats the boat's rear. More fish are hauled from the sea.
I calmly open my water tins. Five pints of my hoarded wealth flow down my throat. I watch the dorados below me, calmly swimming about. Yes, we part here, my friends. You do not seem betrayed. Perhaps you do not mind enriching these poor men. They will never again see a catch the likes of you. What secrets do you know that I can not even guess?
I wonder why I chanced to pack my spear gun in my emergency bag, why Solo stayed afloat just long enough for me to get my equipment. Why, when I had trouble hunting, did the dorado come closer? Why did they make it increasingly easier for me as I and my weapon became more broken and weak until in the end they lay on their sides
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right under my point? Why have they provided me just enough food to hang on for eighteen hundred nautical miles? I know that they are only fish, and I am only a man. We do what we must and only what Nature allows us to do in this life. Yet sometimes the fabric of life is woven into such a fantastic pattern. I needed a miracle and my fish gave it to me. That and more. They've shown me that miracles swim and fly and walk, rain down and roll away all around me. I look around at life's magnificent arena. The dorados seem almost to be leaping into the fishermen arms. I have never felt so humble, nor so peaceful, free, and at ease.
It took Steven about six weeks to recover to the point of being physically functional, and another six to gain strength and for his weight to return to normal. So far, no long-term, internal damage has shown up. However, his metabolism was altered and he can now eat a maximum of two meals a day, and often eats only one.
One of the most frequent questions he is asked is, "Do you still sail after all that?"
My reply is simply, "What else would I do?" The sea is my work place, my playground, and my home. It has offered me a pathway to more disciplines than I can ever master. Oceanography, aerodynamics, astronomy, and common-sense problem solving are essential parts of sailing; hydrodynamics, physics, engineering, and intuitive extrapolation are essential to boat design; craftsmanship, metallurgy, forestry, and plastics technology are ingredients of boatbuilding. I am a jack-of-all-trades who has a passion for exploration. Where else can I find a place where knowing very little about a lot of things is so useful? Where else can I find such a great frontier within such easy reach?"
From Steven Callahan, Adrift,
Houghton, Mifflin Company, New York
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Part VIII
An 18th century Indian depiction of the network
of centres (chakras) in the subtle body
The growing popularity of Hatha Yoga all over the world does not necessarily mean that its real purpose is well known or understood. In fact, the Hatha Yoga practices which were designed by the ancient Rishis of India for the evolution of man, are now being viewed and utilized in a very limited sense. Today, particularly in the West, Hatha Yoga is generally practised to improve health, reduce stress, minimize the effects of ageing or keep the body fit. People even speak of going to "yoga classes " or doing "yoga exercises " — as if "yoga" was some kind of callisthenics — without knowing, it seems, that Yoga, which is a word subsuming many disciplines, goes far beyond and far deeper than mere physical exercises, however remarkable they may be.
It is therefore important to reflect on the deeper purpose of Hatha Yoga so as to put this great discipline in its proper place in the realm of physical education.
Yoga is a Sanskrit word which comes from the root-verb "yuj", to unite. All Yoga is by nature an attempt and an arriving at unity with the Supreme. To attain freedom from our ordinary limitations and to become one with the Divine is the common aim of all Yogas, but there are specializations and, towards this end, they use different kinds of methods. They all consist in a self-discipline, but each Yoga concentrates on a different realm of the being which, once purified and controlled, can become a gateway into the Spirit.
So Hatha Yoga also is meant to lead to unity or some kind of union
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with That which is the Highest; and here, the starting-point is the body, It is on the subtle workings of the body that the Hatha Yogin applies his concentration. It is the body that should be made into a door opening onto the Spirit. But the system of Hatha Yoga is founded on a particular view of the body, on a close connection between body and soul: here the body is not seen only as a mass of gross matter; this mass of gross matter in which there is life is seen as a material reproduction of the subtler parts of our being. It contains a secret. It is a sort of mysterious bridge between the physical and the spiritual being.
The human body, according to Hatha Yoga, is a receptacle which, when purified, can hold an illimitable amount of universal life-energy. It is an instrument which, when taught concentration, can control and direct energy for a definite end. It is a pathway which, once cleared, can lead to the vastness of the Spirit.
Yoga is different from philosophy. While in philosophy, what is important is theory and speculation, in Yoga what counts is practice and direct experience. However, traditionally one was not to undertake alone this difficult journey. Only a guru could guide the steps of the seeker, and most of the practical instructions were directly passed from the guru to the pupil. They were even meant not to be divulged to any one. Nevertheless some ancient texts exist and may help to shed light on this great science. We will extract some verses from one of them, Hatha ; Yoga Pradipika (Light on Hatha Yoga) written in Sanskrit by Yogi Swatmarama, hoping that it will enable the reader to understand better the principles and methods of Hatha Yoga.
Hatha Yoga is only one of the several systems of Yoga. Other systems of Yoga include Raja Yoga (Yoga of meditative concentration), ' Buddhi Yoga (Yoga of intelligent will), Karma Yoga (Yoga of Divine works), Jnana Yoga (Yoga of Divine knowledge), Bhakti Yoga (Yoga of Divine Love), etc. There are also many other systems of Yoga like Mantra Yoga, Kriya Yoga and others. Another very important system of Yoga is that of Tantra. In India, there have been many attempts at synthesizing various systems of Yoga. The earliest synthesise of Yoga is to be found in the Veda, which combined the processes of knowledge, action, and devotion so as to arrive at immortality. The next system of synthesis is to be in the Upanishads, where a great emphasis was laid on the processes of knowledge. In the Gita, Sri Krishna expounds a grand synthesis of Buddhi Yoga, Dhyana Yoga, Karma Yoga, Jnana
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Yoga and Bhakti Yoga, where the final emphasis is laid on bhakti as a supreme motivation of Karma Yoga and crown of Jnana Yoga. In recent times, Sri Ramakrishna synthesised various systems of Yoga as also inner practices of different religions like Christianity and Islam into a large synthesis. Swami Vivekananda expounded the concept of synthesis of Yoga in his various works. The latest task of synthesis of Yoga has been accomplished by Sri Aurobindo and The Mother. In this synthesis the integrating principle is that of integral concentration. All instruments of the body life, mind, soul and spirit are purified, subtilised and perfected and they are focussed on the goal of integral realisation of the Divine and integral transformation of the human nature. In this vast synthesis, the goals of various systems of Yoga are integrated but the details of their respective methods are either dispensed with altogether or modified or retained only in their essence. In this Integral Yoga, the goal of physical perfection is an essential part; but the concept of physical perfection is much vaster than the one found in the Hatha Yoga. Again, while the methods of Hatha Yoga are accepted as valid methods of the goals of Hatha Yoga itself, these are not insisted upon either as central or peripheral in the Integral Yoga; they are optional. and can be adopted; but they can be also dispensed with altogether and replaced by deeper psychological processes applied to the human body as also to other aspects of human personality.
A very important caution is given to the reader that Hatha Yogic practises should be undertaken only under the strict supervision of a competent teacher.
All Yogic systems maintain that the human body is subordinate to the spirit and that the human body can be rightly dealt with only when we can reach out beyond the limitations of our physical being. In some extreme systems of Yoga, the body tends to be neglected and it is even declared that the body is an obstacle to conquest of the Spirit. In the integral systems of Yoga, body is looked upon as an instrument of the Spirit; in some cases, the body is used as an instrument or as a necessary basis until spiritual realisation is achieved. In the Integral Yoga of Sri Aurobindo and The Mother, a greater goal of the human body has been envisaged. Here the human body is required to achieve not only high degrees of excellence but also such perfections which can be expected when the Spirit manifests fully in the physical body.
One can achieve extraordinary capacities by practices which have
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been recommended by Hatha Yoga. One can also utilize methods, of or even Martial Arts. On account of their great importance, we are presenting in this part appropriate selections on these subjects. It is hoped that these will be found not only interesting but also instructive. But even then, there are further possibilities of the human body which have been envisaged in the Integral Yoga. A statement of these further possibilities is to be found in Sri Aurobindo's essays on "The Supramental Manifestation on Earth". A chapter from the book entitled "Perfection of the Body" has been placed in Part IX. Even beyond the perfection of the body, Sri Aurobindo has envisaged the possibility of the mutation of the human body. How that body would be, how it would function and what extraordinary powers and capacities it would possess and manifest is discussed by Sri Aurobindo in another chapter entitled "The Divine Body". We have envisaged the inclusion of that chapter in a later book that we are planning. But the readers who are keen even at this stage to know how Sri Aurobindo and The Mother envisaged and worked for the mutation of the human body may be advised to read Sri Aurobindo's book "-The Supramental Manifestation upon Earth" and thirteen volumes of Mother's Agenda. The readers may also refer in this connection to Satprem's "Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness", "The Mother or The Divine Materialism", "The Mother or the Next Species" and "The Mother or the Mutation of Death". Satprem's recent book "Evolution II" can also be recommended.
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(A few extracts)
The two main and very practical tools used in the discipline of Hatha Yoga are the Asana and the Pranayama techniques.
The word asana comes from the verb as, "to sit" and can mean "sit ting position", but, more than that, 'refers to any specific body position described by the founders of Hatha Yoga. In the technique of Asanas, the body is taught to remain immobile in certain special postures. Why immobile? Because the usual restlessness of our body is just a sign that it is unable to hold even a limited amount of energy that enters into it. It immediately wants to dissipate it. By remaining absolutely still in the most difficult of prescribed postures, the body is taught to retain the life energy and to regulate it. The first and most apparent consequence of an increased circulation of force in the body is that it becomes remarkably healthy, vigorous and youthful, capable of feats of endurance of which the normal powers of man would be incapable. Patanjali describes the body of a perfected Yogin as "beautiful, lustrous, strong and having its parts as firm as the thunderbolt." Its natural tendencies towards decay, age and death are checked.
In , although he describes only a few asanas, Yogi Swatmarama speaks of eighty-four postures. So there are a great number of asanas and some of them are extremely complicated. This variety calls for a great flexibility of the body but it is also meant to alter the relation of the physical energy in the body to the earth energy. Consequently, the body tends to get something of the qualities of the subtle body. It is freed from its usual inertia and acquires a marvellous lightness.
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Here is how Yogi Swatmarama describes certain asanas and their effects:
Asanas:
Being the first accessory of Hatha Yoga, asana is described first. It should be practised for gaining steady posture, health and lightness of body.
I am going to describe certain asanas which have been adopted by Munis like Vasistha, etc., and Yogis like Matsyendra, etc.
Swastika-asana
Having kept both the hands under both the thighs, with the body straight, when one sits calmly in this posture, it is called Swastika.
Gomukha-asana
Placing the right ankle on the left side and the left ankle on the right side, makes Gomukha-asana, having the appearance of a cow.
Dhanura asana
Having caught the toes of the feet with both the hands and
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(above) Urdhva dhanura asana
(below) Padmasana
(left)
Dhanura
asana
Practice of Hatha Yoga in Auroville
Page 581
carried them to the ears by drawing the body like a bow, it becomes Dhanura asana.
Paschima Tana
Having stretched the feet on the ground, like a stick, and having grasped the toes of both the feet with both the hands, when one sits with his forehead resting on the thighs, it is called Paschima Tana.
This Paschima Tana carries the air from the front to the back part of the body (i.e. to the susumna). It kindles gastric fire, reduces obesity and cures all diseases of men.
Mayura-asana
Place the palms of both the hands on the ground, and place the navel on both the elbows and balancing thus, the body should be stretched backward like a stick. This is called Mayura-asana.
This asana soon destroys all diseases, and removes abdominal disorders, and also those arising from irregularities of phlegm, bile and wind, digests unwholesome food taken in excess, increases appetite and destroys the most deadly poison.
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Shava-asana
Lying down on the ground, like a corpse, is called Sava-asana. It removes fatigue and gives rest to the mind.
Padmasana
Place the right foot on the left thigh and the left foot on the right thigh, and grasp the toes with the hands crossed over the back. Press the chin against the chest and gaze on the tip of the nose. This is called the Padmasana, the destroyer of the diseases of the Yamis.
Place the feet on the thighs, with the soles upwards, and place the hands on the thighs, with the palms upwards.
Gaze on the tip of the nose, keeping the tongue pressed against the root of the teeth of the upper jaw, and the chin against the chest, and raise the air up slowly, i.e., pull the apana-vayu gently upwards.
This is called the Padmasana, the destroyer of all disease. It is difficult of attainment but can be learnt by the wise.
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The second method used by Hatha Yoga is the Pranayama.
Pranayama is known to eliminate disorders and malfunctioning in the physical body, but is not entirely effective at the beginning if some imbalance is present. Especially if there is a defect in the proportion of the three humours of the body as defined by Ayurveda (kapha or mucus, pitta or bile, vata or wind), this should be corrected first. So Hatha Yoga uses supplementary physical methods specially designed for this purpose. They are called the "six actions " or shatkarma.
If there be excess of fat or phlegm in the body, the six kinds of kriyas (duties) should be performed first. But others, not suffering from the excess of these, should not per form them,
The six kinds of duties are: Dhauti, Basti, Neti, Trataka, Nauti and Kapala Bhati. These are called the six actions.
These six kinds of actions which cleanse the body should be kept secret. They produce extraordinary attributes and are performed with earnestness by the best of Yogis.
Yoga Pradipika explains here one of these cleansing techniques, the one called "dhauti":
The Dhauti
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A strip of cloth, about three inches wide and fifteen cubits long, is pushed in (swallowed), when moist with warm water, through the passage shown by the guru, and is taken out again. This is called Dhauti Karma.*
There is no doubt, that cough, asthma, enlargement of the spleen, leprosy, and twenty kinds of diseases born of phlegm, disappear by the practice of Dhauti Karma.
Once the different systems of his body have been cleansed by Shat karma, the apprentice may start practising Pranayama:
The exercises called Pranayamas have to be combined with asanas and should be performed keeping the body immobile, firmly established in one of the prescribed postures.
While Asana deals with the most material part of the physical being, Pranayama deals with the life-energy, Prana. Or rather it deals with the most apparent manifestation of it in us which is breathing, and thereby seeks to obtain mastery over all the powers of Prana: It is a technique through which the quantity of Prana in the body is activated to a higher frequency, controlled and directed at will.
It consists of breathing exercises of various kinds. The Yogin must first equalise the duration of his inhalations (puraka) and exhalations (rechaka). Progressively he should increase the time during which he retains his breath in-between (kumbhaka). The most important thing here is the retention of breath. At the beginning, of course, it is extremely difficult to execute for more than just a few seconds, but through regular and arduous practice, it can be conquered. Thereafter a stage is even reached when breathing ceases. This is Kevala Kumbhaka or "retention alone".
____________
* The strip should be moistened with a little warm water, and the end should be held with the teeth. It is swallowed, little by little; thus, first day 1 cubit, 2nd day 2 cubits, 3rd day 3 cubits, and so on. After swallowing it the stomach should be given a good, round motion from left to right, and then it should be taken out slowly and gently
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So the body of the Hatha Yogin experiences something which normally occurs only at the time of death: cessation of breath.
It is maybe why Swatmarama states that a Yogin practising Pranayama gets rid of the fear of death.
If properly performed, Pranayama is said to be very effective in removing certain diseases. The body is described as lean and glowing.
The first aim of Pranayama is to purify the nervous system in such a way that the mind, no longer subject to its usual disorder and agitation, is completely stilled. In the system of Hatha Yoga, Prana and mind are intricately linked. The mind is totally dependent on body and Prana. If one controls Prana, his mind is automatically controlled.
Yogi Swatmarama describes here some exercises of Pranayama:
An Indian
miniature showing
Pranayama
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Posture becoming established, a Yogi, master of himself, eating salutary and moderate food, should practise pranayama, as instructed by his guru.
Respiration being disturbed, the mind becomes disturbed. By restraining respiration, the Yogi gets steadiness of mind.
So long as the (breathing) air stays in the body, it is called life. Death consists in the passing out of the (breathing) air. It is, therefore, necessary to restrain the breath.
Method of performing Pranayama
Sitting in the Padmasana posture the Yogi should fill in the air through the left nostril (closing the right one); and, keeping it confined according to one's ability, it should be expelled slowly through the surya (right nostril). Then, drawing in the air through the surya (right nostril) slowly, the belly should be filled, and after performing Kumbhaka as before, it should be expelled slowly through the chandra (left nostril).
Inhaling thus through the one through which it was
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expelled, and having restrained it there, till possible, it should be exhaled through the other, slowly and not forcibly.
If the air be inhaled through the left nostril, it should be expelled again through the other, and filling it through the right nostril, confining it there, it should be expelled through the left nostril. By practising in this way, through the right and the left nostrils alternately, the whole of the collection of the nadis of the yamis (practisers) becomes clean, i.e., free from impurities, after three months and over.
Kumbhakas should be performed gradually four times during day and night, i.e., (morning, noon, evening and mid night), till the number of Kumbhakas for one time is eighty and for day and night together it is three hundred twenty.
In the beginning there is perspiration, in the middle stage there is quivering, and in the last or the third stage one obtains steadiness; and then the breath should be made steady or motionless.
Just as lions, elephants and tigers are controlled by and by,
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so the breath is controlled by slow degrees, otherwise (i.e., by being hasty or using too much force) it kills the practiser himself.
When Pranayama, etc., are performed properly, they eradicate all diseases: but an improper practice generates disease.
Hiccough, asthma cough, pain in the head, the ears, and the eyes; these and other various kinds of diseases are generated by the disturbance of the breath.
Considering Puraka (filling), Rechaka (expelling) and Kumbhaka (confining), Pranayama is of three kinds, but considering it accompanied by Puraka and Rechaka, and without these, it is of two kinds only, i.e., Sahita (with) and Kevala (alone).
Exercise in Sahita should be continued till success in Kevala is gained. This latter is simply confining the air with ease, without Rechaka and Puraka.
In the practice of Kevala Pranayama when it can be per formed successfully without Rechaka and Puraka, then it
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is called Kevala Kumbhaka.
There is nothing in the three worlds which may be difficult to obtain for him who is able to keep the air confined according to pleasure, by means of Kevala Kumbhaka.
After performing Pranayama and other related exercises like mudras, or bandhas ("stops" or "locks") which remove blockages, "capture" and channelize the energy, the Hatha Yogin becomes able to direct the Prana anywhere. And this is of momentous importance. According to an ancient Indian science, the life-force circulates in the subtle body through a series of channels (nadis gathered up in six centres called lotuses or chakras (circles) which rise in an ascending line to a summit, the "thousand petalled lotus " from where all vital and mental energy flows. This pattern is reproduced in the physical body: these centres are situated along a main channel (the sushumna nadi), in the centre of the spinal cord, that rises from the bottom of the vertebral column upto the brain.
Usually, due to obstructions in the different nadis of the nervous sys tem, very little energy/lows into them, so the chakras are closed or only partly open. It is said that the supreme energy is there, but asleep, coiled like a snake (kundalini) in the lowest of the chakras. But when the body is immobile and capable of holding the Prana, when the back is strictly erect and in a straight line, when the mind is stilled, the Sushumna nadi entirely clear of obstructions, then the Kundalini Shakti awakens, rises, pierces the chakras and opens each of the ascending planes to the divine light and energy. When the Kundalini Shakti pierces through the highest chakra (brahmarandhra), it merges with the supreme Soul. The Hatha Yogin attains the stage of Samadhi or Yogic Trance, the supreme step of the ladder of the Hatha Yogic practice.
As the chief of the snakes is the support of the earth with
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A 18th century miniature depicting kundalini, coiled like a serpent at the base of the trunk.
all the mountains and forests on it, so all the Tantras (Yoga practices) rest on the Kundalini (the vertebral column).
When the sleeping Kundalini awakens by favour of a guru, then all the lotuses (in the six chakras or centres) and all the knots are pierced through.
Susumna (Sunya Padayi) becomes a main road for the passage of Prana, and the mind then becomes free from all connections (with its objects of enjoyments) and Death is then evaded.
The Mahamudra
Pressing the Yoni (perineum) with the heel of the left foot, and stretching forth the right foot, its toe should be grasped by the thumb and first finger.
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By stopping the throat (by Jalandhara Bandha) the air is drawn in from the outside and carried down. Just as a snake struck with a stick becomes straight like a stick, in the same way, sakti (susumna) becomes straight at once. Then the Kundalini, becoming as it were dead, and, leaving both the Ida and the Pingala, enters the susumna (the middle passage).
It should be expelled then, slowly only and not violently. For this very reason, the best of the wise men call it the Maha Mudra. This Maha Mudra has been propounded by great masters. Great evils and pains, like death, are destroyed by it, and for this reason wise men call it the Maha Mudra.
The Saktichalana.
Kutilangi (crooked-bodied), Kundalini, Bhujangi (a she serpent) Sakti, Ishwari, Kundali, Arundhati, — all these words are synonymous.
As a door is opened with a key, so the Yogi opens the door of mukti by opening Kundalini by means of Hatha Yoga.
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The Parameswari (Kundalini) sleeps, covering the hole of the passage by which one can go to the seat of Brahma which is free from pains.
Kundali Sakti sleeps on the bulb, for the purpose of giving moksa to Yogis and bondage to the ignorant. He who knows it, knows Yoga.
Kundali is of a bent shape, and has been described to be like a serpent. He who has moved that Sakti is no doubt Mukta (released from bondage).
As salt being dissolved in water becomes one with it, so when Atma and mind become one, it is called Samadhi.
When the Prana becomes lean (vigourless) and the mind becomes absorbed, then their becoming equal is called Samadhi.
Indifference to worldly enjoyments is very difficult to obtain, and equally difficult is the knowledge of the Realities to obtain. It is very difficult to get the condition of Samadhi, without the favour of a true guru.
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By means of various postures and different Kumbhakas, when the great power (Kundali) awakens, then the Prana becomes absorbed in Sunya (Samadhi).
The Yogi whose sakti has awakened, and who has renounced all actions, attains to the condition of Samadhi, without any effort.
When the Prana flows in the Susumna, and the mind has entered sunya, then the Yogi is free from the effects of Karmas.
O Immortal one (that is, the yogi who has attained to the condition of Samadhi), I salute thee! Even death itself, into whose mouth the whole of this movable and immovable world has fallen, has been conquered by thee.
In this body there are seventy-two thousand openings of Nadis; of these, the susumna, which has the Sambhavi Sakti in it, is the only important one, the rest are useless.
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The Vayu should be made to enter the Susumna without restraint by him who has practised the control of breathing and has awakened the Kundali by the (gastric) fire.
The Prana, flowing through the susumna, brings about the condition of manonmani; other practices are simply futile for the Yogi.
By whom the breathing has been controlled, by him the activities of the mind also have been controlled; and, conversely, by whom the activities of the mind have been controlled, by him the breathing also has been controlled.
There are two causes of the activities of the mind: (1) Vasana (desires) and (2) the respiration (the Prana). Of these, the destruction of the one is the destruction of both.
Breathing is lessened when the mind becomes absorbed, and the mind becomes absorbed when the Prana is restrained.
Both the mind and the breath are united together, like milk and water; and both of them are equal in their activities.
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Mind begins its activities where there is the breath, and the Prana begins its activities where there is the mind.
By the suspension of the one, therefore, comes the suspension of the other, and by the operations of the one are brought about the operations of the other. When they are present, the Indriyas (the senses) remain engaged in their proper functions, and when they become latent then there is moksa.
Freeing the mind from all thoughts and thinking of nothing, one should sit firmly like a pot in the space (surround ed and filled with the ether).
As the air, in and out of the body, remains unmoved, so the breath with mind becomes steady in its place (i.e., in Brahmarandhra).
By thus practising, night and day, the breathing is brought under control, and, as the practice increases, the mind becomes calm and steady.
One should become void in and void out, and void like a
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pot in the space. Full in and full outside, like a jar in the ocean.
He should be neither of inside nor of outside world; and, leaving all thoughts, he should think of nothing.
The whole of this world and all the schemes of the mind are but the creations of thought. Discarding these thoughts and taking leave of all conjectures, O Rama! obtain peace.
As camphor disappears in fire, and rock salt in water, so the mind united with the atma loses its identity.
When the knowable, and the knowledge, are both destroyed equally, then there is no second way (i.e., Duality is destroyed).
All this movable and immovable world is mind. When the mind has attained to the unmani avastha, there is no dwaita (from the absence of the working of the mind.)
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Mind disappears by removing the knowable, and, on its disappearance, atma only remains behind.
Arambha Avastha
When the Brahma granthi (in the heart) is pierced through by Pranayama, then a sort of happiness is experienced in the vacuum of the heart, and the anahat sounds, like various tinkling sounds of ornaments, are heard in the body.
In the arambha, a Yogi's body becomes divine, glowing, healthy, and emits a divine smell. The whole of his heart becomes void.
The Yogi, engaged in Samadhi, feels neither smell, taste, colour, touch, sound, nor is conscious of his own self.
He whose mind is neither sleeping, waking, remembering, destitute of memory, disappearing nor appearing, is liberated.
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He feels neither heat, cold, pain, pleasure, respect nor disrespect. Such a Yogi is absorbed in Samadhi.
He who, though awake, appears like one sleeping, and is without inspiration and expiration, is certainly free.
The Yogi, engaged in Samadhi, cannot be killed by any instrument, and is beyond the controlling power of beings. He is beyond the reach of incantations and charms.
As long as the Prana does not enter and flow in the middle channel and the bindu does not become firm by the control of the movements of the Prana; as long as the mind does not assume the form of Brahma without any effort in contemplation, so long all the talk of knowledge and wisdom is merely the nonsensical babbling of a mad man.
Reading Yoga Pradipika, one marvels at the depth of the great psycho-physical science on which rests the system of Hatha Yoga. One is amazed by the precise knowledge of the body possessed by the ancient sages of India who elaborated the techniques described by Swatmarama: here the body is not seen as a kind of machine move or less dependent on the mind, more or less cumbersome and recalcitrant, whose functions carry no meaning except that of immediate necessity. It is known and experienced as a living symbol, a powerful and sacred yantra which can connect us with our subtle body, with the universal energy, with the Divine.
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Of course, Hatha Yoga is a difficult and onerous system. When seriously pursued, it requires so much time and effort that it hardly leaves room for any other activity or research. It demands not only a complete dedication but also a total surrender to the guru. The Hatha Yoga Pradipika insists on the fact that no success can be achieved without the presence and the guidance of the guru. So it is unlikely that many people can or will want to undertake to practise Hatha Yoga in the traditional way.
Yet it is a fact that in the last fifty years or so Hatha Yoga has been accepted as an alternate therapeutic science all over the world and that a lot of people, even without exactly knowing what Hatha Yoga stands for, have derived many benefits from even a very limited practice. Is this attraction for Hatha Yoga not a sign that, although its real goal is generally forgotten, there is in mankind a sort of aspiration to look at the body in a new way? Is it not a sign that men, more or less consciously, sense that there is a secret, hidden deep into the body, and that it may be the key to the future evolution of humanity? Perhaps it is what Hatha Yoga can teach the modem world. Perhaps men can dispense with its methods but, taking advantage of the science on which it is founded, they can use it as a help to go forward in search of higher truths.
Hatha Yoga gives us a key to discover the subtle body behind the gross body. It also gives us the knowledge and experience of the centres of the subtle body, each one of which connects a certain level of consciousness and energy with its corresponding universal plane of consciousness and energy.
By constant practice of Hatha Yoga one can attain remarkable capacities of the body. One can stop the heart beats and yet continue to live; one can remain without food for long periods of time and yet can sustain the life-force and strength of the body; some Hatha Yogins are reported to live without any intake of food; the Hatha Yogin can demonstrate remarkable feats of physical powers and capacities: one can become as light as a feather, one can be as heavy as to be entirely immobile and immovable; one can become even atomic and can pass through physical obstructions. The Hatha Yogin can maintain health and vigour with ease and effortlessly. The Hatha Yogin can endure heat or cold, upto extraordinary degrees. The Hatha Yogin's longevity also can be very great and even indefinite. All these things are possible.
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According to the larger views of Yoga, however, there are possibilities of attainment of great vistas of knowledge and great effectivities of will-power, capable of effecting interventions in world-events and world-actions. For these attainments, other Yogas and their methods need to be developed. Raja Yoga, for example, gives the possibilities of expansion of mental powers of extraordinary nature. Jnana Yoga can give possibilities of specialized domains of existence, leading up to the knowledge of the Supra Cosmic. Bhakti Yoga can provide experiences of extraordinary intensities and emotions and purified relationships with human beings and creatures of the world culminating in aesthetic union with the Divine. And there are many other systems of Yoga, each one capable of giving special powers and attainments. Hatha Yoga is only one of the many systems of Yoga. A synthesis of Yoga would include basic principle's not only of Hatha Yoga but also of other Yogas; and such a synthesis of Yoga would also provide a judicious combination of various systems of Yoga, leading upto a comprehensive combination of consequences for the perfection of the spiritual, mental, vital and physical perfection. A divine life in a divine body would be the ideal of the integral Yoga. In the integral Yoga, perfections of the physical body would be a part of the totality of attainments, although the methods of Hatha Yoga may not prove to be indispensable. And yet, methods of Hatha Yoga can optionally be employed in the total processes of the integral Yoga.
One thing however stands out very clearly. Hatha Yoga is a systematic process; it is scientifically rigorous and meticulous; its results can be verified; they can be demonstrated; they can be repeated in increasing number of individuals, provided its methods are rigorously pursued and practised.
Extracts from The Hatha Yoga Pradipika,
translated into English by Panchan Singh,
Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers PV Limited, New Delhi.
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A marathon monk salutes a sacred tree
It may well be that the greatest athletes today are not the stars of professional sports, nor the Olympic champions, nor the top triathlon competitors, but the marathon monks of Japan's Mount Hiei. The amazing feats and the incredible endurance of these "Running Buddhas" are likely unrivalled in the annals of athletic endeavour. And the prize they seek to capture consists not of such trifles as a pot of gold or a few fleeting moments of glory, but enlightenment in the here and now — the greatest thing a human being can achieve.
The mountain itself is a mandala. Practice self-reflection intently amid the undefiled stones, trees, streams, and vegetation, losing yourself in the great body of the Supreme Buddha.
— Attributed to So-o
The fascinating story of the marathon monks, perhaps history's greatest athletes, begins with the birth of the Grand Patriarch So-o in 831. From an early age the boy refused to eat meat or fish and displayed scant interest in the toys and bubbles that attract other children. At age fifteen he ascended Hiei and two years later received preliminary ordination. The young postulant lived simply in a tiny hut until he caught the attention of the abbot Ennin. Over the years, Ennin had noticed a young monk visiting the main temple every day, rain or shine, summer and winter, to offer incense and wild mountain flowers before Saicho's image of Yakushi Nyorai. Impressed by the monk's sincerity, the abbot offered to sponsor him as one of the Tendai sect's official government ordinands, but the monk suggested another trainee who spent hours and hours doing prostrations in the main hall.
Two years later an aristocratic candidate for the position of government ordinand decided to remain a layman and consequently asked
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Ennin to choose someone worthy to serve in his stead. The abbot selected the young pilgrim monk, giving him the name So-o, "one who serves for others".
Ennin initiated So-o into the Tantric mysteries of Tendai and also described the great mountain pilgrimages of Chinese Buddhism....
Later in a dream, So-o heard a voice telling him: "All the peaks on this mountain are sacred. Make pilgrimages to its holy places following the instructions of the mountain gods. Train hard like this each and every day. This is the practice of Never-Despise-Bodhisattva. Your sole practice is to be the veneration of all things; through it you will realize the True Dharma."...
Following his formal ordination in 856, the twenty-five-year-old priest built a hermitage in what became known as Mudo-Ji Valley. In 859, So-o hid himself in remote Katsuragawa Valley in the Hira mountain range for a thousand days of austerities. Vouchsafed a vision of Fugen Bosatsu (Samantabhadra) one night, So-o was thereafter blessed with immediate intuitive understanding of the sutras. Later, after a period of particularly intense meditation, Fudo Myo-o appeared before So-o in the Katsuragawa waterfall. Overcome, So-o leaped into the falls to embrace the deity. Instead he collided with a large log, which he then dragged out and carved into the image of Fudo he had just seen. The image was enshrined, and the temple built around it was named Myo-o-in.
Upon completing his retreat in Katsuragawa, So-o returned to Hiei and constructed a hall to house another image of Fudo Myo-o. This hall, called Myo-o-do, became the home base of Hiei kaihogyo monks. So-o also established the Veneration of the Names of the Three Thousand Buddhas Practice. From December 31 to January 3 the names of the three thousand Buddhas are copied individually, accompanied by prostrations and chants.
In the tenth month of 918, So-o sequestered himself in Myo-o-do, offered incense and flowers to the image of Fudo Myo-o, sat facing the west, and serenely repeated the name of Amida Buddha as he entered eternal meditation. Upon his passing, it is said, the entire mountain peak was flooded with celestial music. So-o is venerated as the father of Tendai Shugendo, "the mountain religion of practice and enlightened experience."
So-o's successor, Hengo, further developed Myo-o-do and Katsuragawa as centres of kaihogyo. Hengo is traditionally believed to have done
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kaihogyo for 3,600 days, representing ten years of continuous pilgrim age....
Kaihogyo as it is known today was largely developed in the third stage, from 1310 until the destruction of Hiei by Nobunaga in 1571. The manner of dress, the basic routes, and other procedures were codified in this period. A work called The Story of Wandering Saints, com posed in 1387, describes the kaihogyo of that era as consisting of a 40 kilometre (25-mile) course. The full term was 700 days with two nine day retreats each year at Katsuragawa Valley. Upon completion of the 700th day, there was a nine-day fast at Myo-o-do, the same as today.
Kaihogyo monks were the first to resettle on Hiei — after all, the only thing they needed for practice was their two feet — with the monk Koun completing a 1,000-day term in 1583. Formal permission to rebuild Hiei was granted in 1585, and since then kaihogyo monks have served as the mainstay core masters of Tendai Buddhism.
The Path of the Spiritual Athlete
... Of all the disciplines practiced on Hiei, the mountain marathon — kaihogyo — has had the greatest appeal over the centuries, for it encompasses the entire spectrum of Tendai Buddhism — meditation, esotericism, precepts, devotion, nature worship, and work for the salvation of sentient beings.
In principle, all Tendai priests and nuns must do kaihogyo at least one day during their training at Gyo-in. Men who wish to become abbots of one of the subtemples on Hiei frequently opt for a 100-day term of kaihogyo. The requirements for the 100-day term are: to be a Tendai ordinand in good standing, sponsorship by a senior Tendai cleric, and permission of the Council of Elder Gyoja.
If permission is granted, there is one week of preparatory training (maegyo) before the term begins.. The candidate is given a secret hand book (tebumi) to copy which gives directions for the course, describes the stations to visit, lists the proper prayers and chants, and contains other essential information. Because this handwritten manual is often damaged by rain and constant handling, the gyoja* makes two copies.
Also during this week, all the marathon monks of that particular term clear the route of debris, especially glass, sharp rocks, sticks, and
_________
* Gyoja (Skt. aachaarin). One who undergoes strict Buddhist training
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branches, and piles of leaves in which vipers like to hide. While the new gyoja are rather lax about such clearing of the path, the senior marathon monks — who know what it is like to have their feet slashed or punctured by pointed objects or to step on a poisonous snake — cover every inch of ground thoroughly.
On day one, the gyoja suits up in the unique Hiei uniform and visits So-o's tomb to ask for spiritual guidance. The pure-white outfit — made of white cotton only, for animal hair, skin, and silk are prohibited — consists of a short kimono undershirt, nobakama pants, hand and leg covers, a long outer robe, and priest's surplice. Around the waist goes the "cord of death" (shide no himo), with a sheathed knife (goma no ken) tucked inside; these two accessories remind the gyoja of his duty to take his life — by either hanging or self-disembowelment — if he fails to complete any part of the practice. This is the reason the gyoja is dressed in white — the colour of death — rather than basic Buddhist black. A small bag to hold the handbook, a sutra book, two candles, and matches is hung over the right shoulder; on occasion a flower bag to hold shikimi branches or food (offered at spots along the way) is draped over the left shoulder. The gyoja carries his rosary in his left hand.
Inside the higasa, the distinctive woven "trademark" hat of the Hiei gyoja, a small coin is placed; if the monk dies on pilgrimage he will need the money to pay the boatman on the Oriental equivalent of the river Styx. Except for rain, the Great Kyoto Marathon (kirimawari), and the Katsuragawa Retreat, the higasa must be carried, not worn, by all gyoja with fewer than 300 days of training; it is always held in the left hand, and if put down it must be placed on the hisen, a special type of fan. The higasa is covered with the oiled paper when it rains. Since Buddhist monks and other religious pilgrims customarily wear large round straw hats, the reason for the peculiar elongated shape of the Hiei gyoja hat is uncertain, especially because it appears to afford less protection against sun, rain, and wind. On the other hand, one marathon monk believes that the length of the hat keeps branches away from the gyoja's face and provides a clear view, two important considerations for those who walk along pitch-black mountain paths. The shape of the hat is also said to represent a lotus leaf breaking the surface of the water, signifying the emergence of Buddhist enlightenment in the midst of the world of illusion.
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Eighty pairs of straw sandals are allotted for the 100-day term in Mudo-Ji. For the longer Imuro Valley Course, gyoja are allowed the use of one pair per day. During the Great Marathon, the monk can use as many straw sandals as necessary, usually going through five pairs a day. This style of straw sandal is, like the hat, lotus-shaped and is thought to have originated in India.... In sunny, dry weather, one pair can last three or even four days, but in heavy rains the sandals disintegrate in a few hours. Thus the gyoja carries one or two spares.
The old-fashioned straw raincoat and the paper lantern, the other two permitted articles, are on occasion replaced in stormy weather by their modern counter parts — a vinyl raincoat and an electric flashlight. Rain — and in early spring, snow — is the bane of the marathon monks. It destroys their sandals, extinguishes their lanterns, slows their pace, washes away their paths, and soaks them to the bone. In years when the rainy season is especially bad, a marathon monk's robe never dries out completely.
The basic rules of kaihogyo are as follows:
During the run the robe and hat may not be removed.
No deviation from the appointed course.
No stopping for rest or refreshment.
All required services, prayers, and chants must be correctly performed.
No smoking or drinking.
On the first day of the term, which begins at the end of March or the beginning of April, the new gyoja is accompanied by his master, who takes him through the entire course, giving his disciple various instructions and pointers. Thereafter the marathon monk is on his own. Since the gyoja is supposed to train alone, when there is more than one candidate (as has been the case every year recently), both the initial day of the run and daily starting times are staggered.
The day begins at midnight. After conducting (or attending) an hour-long service in the Buddha Hall, the gyoja munches on one or two rice balls or drinks a bowl of miso soup and then dresses. At Mudo-Ji, the 30-kilometer (18.8-mile) journey commences at around 1.30 A.M. From Mudo-Ji the marathon monk proceeds to Kompon Chu-do and from there through the rest of the Eastern Precinct, then on
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The marathon monks are known as the "white cranes of Hiei"
to the Western Precinct, Yokawa, down to Sakamoto and back to Mudo-Ji, stopping at 255 stations of worship and negotiating thousands of stairs and several very steep slopes along the way. At Imuro Valley, the ' course is longer, 40-kilometers (25 miles), with a few more stations of worship, and runs from Sakamoto up to the Eastern Precinct, Western Precinct, Yokawa and then back down to Imuro.
The stations include stops at temples and shrines housing just about every Vedic, Buddhist, Taoist, and Shinto deity that exists in the pantheons of those creeds; at the tombs of the Tendai patriarchs and great : saints; before outdoor stone Buddha images; at sacred peaks, hills, stones, forests, bamboo groves, cedar and pine trees, waterfalls, ponds, springs; even a stop at one or two places to placate the gremlins or hungry ghosts residing there. At each station the gyoja forms the appropriate mudra (ritual hand gesture) and chants the necessary mantra; the stops range from a brief ten seconds to several minutes. During the entire course the monk sits down only once — on a stone bench beneath the sacred giant cedar at the Gyokutaisugi, to chant a two-minute prayer
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for the protection of the imperial family while facing the direction of Kyoto palace.
Depending on the weather and the pace, the gyoja returns to the starting point between 7:30 and 9:30 A.M. The course can be conquered in six hours or even five and a half, but that is likely to draw criticism from senior monks, who disapprove of youngsters racing through the pilgrimage, hastily rattling off the chants and prayers. Most gyoja take between six and a half and seven and a half hours to complete the circuit.
Following an hour-long service in the main hall, the monk goes to his quarters to bathe and then to prepare the midday meal. After a simple, high-calorie lunch of noodles, potatoes, tofu, miso soup, and rice or bread, there is an hour's rest and time to attend to chores. At 3:00 P.M there is another temple service. The second and last meal is taken around 6:00. By 8:00 or 9:00 P.M the gyoja should be sleeping.
This routine is repeated daily without fail, one hundred times, with the exception of kirimawari, the 54-kilometer (33-mile) run through Kyoto. It occurs between the 65 and 75th days of the term, depending on the gyoja's starting date. In kirimawari, a senior marathon monk accompanies the new gyoja as they visit the holy sites of Kyoto and call on parishioners in the city. The gyoja are thereby introduced to "practicing for the sake of others in the world". The freshmen receive more refreshment than usual during kirimawari, but they lose a day of sleep — kirimawari takes nearly twenty-four hours to complete, and almost as soon as they return to Hiei they must be out on the road again.
The freshman marathon monks have a very rough time. It takes two or three weeks to memorize the exact location of each station and the appropriate chants and mudras. Before then, gyoja unfamiliar with the route sometimes get lost in the heavy fog that frequently blankets Hiei and go miles out of their way. Despite the cleaning of the pathways during the pre-training period, there are still plenty of sharp edges or points to cut tender feet to the quick. By the third day the legs and Achilles tendons begin to throb, and after a week they are painfully swollen. Cuts and sores become infected, and monks who were raised in the southern part of Japan often develop frostbite. Most monks run a slight fever the first few weeks, suffer from diarrhoea and haemorrhoids, and experience terrible pains in their backs and hips. By the 30th day,
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however, the worst of the discomfort is over, and around the 70th day the gyoja has acquired the marathon monk stride: eyes focused about 100 feet ahead while moving along in a steady rhythm, keeping the head level, the shoulders relaxed, the back straight, and the nose and navel aligned. The monk also runs in time with the Fudo Myo-o mantra he continually chants.
Following successful completion of a 100-day term and participation in the Katsuragawa Summer Retreat, a gyoja may petition the Hiei Headquarters to be allowed to undertake the 1,000-day challenge (sen-nichi kaihogyo). This involves being free of family ties, willingness to observe a twelve-year retreat, and careful screening by the Council of Elder Gyoja.
The first three hundred days are the basic training, the "boot camp" of the marathon monks. From the fourth year, the monks are allowed to wear tabi, Japanese-style socks, which considerably lessen the wear and tear on their feet. In the fourth and fifth year, though, the pace quickens to 200 consecutive days of running from the end of March to mid-October. Upon completion of the 500th day, the monk earns the title "White-Belted Ascetic" (Byakutai Gyoja) and may use a walking stick for the rest of the runs. He is also qualified to perform kaji, "merit transference" prayer services. Upon completion of the 700th day, the gyoja faces the greatest trial of all: doiri, nine days without food, water, sleep, or rest.
A few weeks prior to doiri, the monk sends out this invitation to the other Tendai priests: "I cannot express my joy at being allowed to attempt doiri. This foolish monk vows to commit himself wholeheartedly to the nine-day fast, purifying body and mind, hoping to become one with the Great Holy One Fudo Myo-o. Please join me for a farewell dinner." The saijiki-gi, the symbolic "last meal," is attended by all the senior priests on the mountain — a goodbye party to a gyoja who might not survive. This point is underscored by having the screens in the room reversed, just as they would be for a funeral.
Following the meal, a bell is struck at 1:00 P.M., and the senior marathon monks and other high-ranking Tendai prelates accompany the gyoja into Myo-o-do. The gyoja begins by making 330 full prostrations; after this, the guests depart, the doors are sealed, and the gyoja is left to his nine-day prayer fast.
At 3:00 A.M., 10:00 A.M. and 5 P.M. the gyoja chants the Lotus Sutra
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before the altar. (During the course of the fast, the entire text is recited). At 2:00 A.M. he performs the shusui (water-taking) ritual. Chanting the Heart Sutra, he walks to the Aka Well, about 200 meters from the temple, and scoops up a bucketful of water, carries it back to the main hall, and offers it to the image of Fudo Myo-o.-The remaining hours are spent sitting in the lotus position silently reciting the Fudo Myo-o mantra — "namaku samanda bazaranan sendan makaroshana sowataya untarata kanman" — 100,000 times in all. It takes about 45 minutes to recite the mantra 1,000 times. Working in twenty-four-hour shifts, two monks, holding incense and candles, are always in attendance to make sure the gyoja remains awake and erect, touching his shoulders whenever he appears to be dozing off.
For several weeks prior to doiri, the gyoja tapers down on his intake of food and water to prepare for the fast, usually limiting himself to one simple meal of noodles, potatoes and soup during this time. (He would usually not eat anything at the farewell dinner.) The first day is no problem, but there is some nausea the second and third day. By the fourth day the pangs of hunger usually cease. By day five, however, the gyoja is so dehydrated that the saliva in his mouth is dried up and he begins to taste blood. To prevent the sides of the mouth from adhering permanently, the gyoja is allowed, from the fifth day, to rinse his mouth with water, but every drop must be spat back into the cup. Unbelievably, the amount of liquid returned is often greater than the original amount. The drops that remain on the gyoja's tongue are com pared to the sweetest nectar. Defecation usually disappears from the third or fourth day, but very weak urination generally continues right to the end. Also from day five, the gyoja is given an arm rest when he recites the Lotus Sutra.
The 2:00 A.M. water-taking ritual helps revive the gyoja. As he steps out of the hall made stuffy by incense smoke and poor circulation, the pure, bracing mountain air helps clear his head. Gyoja claim further that they absorb moisture from the rain and dew through their skin during this walk outdoors. The round trip to the well takes fifteen minutes the first day, but near the end it requires an hour, as the gyoja seems to move in a state of suspended animation.
The doiri — the actual period without food, water, rest, or sleep is seven and a half days (182 hours) — is designed to bring the gyoja face-to-face with death. Hiei legend has it that the original period of
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doiri was ten days; when almost all of the monks died it was shortened just a bit. It was further discovered that the humid months of summer were too dangerous — the deaths of the two doiri monks mentioned in the modem chronicles both occurred in August — they rotted internally.
All the gyoja agree that the greatest ordeal of doiri is not starvation or thirst but keeping the head erect and not being able to rest. It is interesting to note that the hardest part of making a Buddha image is the carving of the head. If the head is not perfectly balanced between the shoulders and on top of the body, sooner or later, it will fall off due to improper stress. Maintaining the correct posture at all times is the ultimate challenge.
During doiri, the gyoja develop extraordinary sensitivity. They can hear ashes fall from the incense sticks and other normally inaudible sounds from all over the mountain. Not surprisingly, they can smell and identify food being prepared miles away, and they see beams of sun and moonlight that seep into the dark interior of the temple. At 3:00 A.M. on the ninth and concluding day, the gyoja makes his final trip to the Aka Well. A large crowd of upward of three hundred Tendai priests and lay believers gathers to attend the grand finale. The trip to the well, which only required twenty minutes the first few days of doiri, now takes the weakened gyoja an hour to complete. He returns to the hall, sits before the altar, and bows his head as an official document from the Enryaku-ji Headquarters is read, proclaiming the end of the fast. The gyoja is then given Ho-no-yu, a special medicinal drink, to revive him. The final barrier is three circumambulations around the hall. When that is done, the gyoja emerges from the "living death" as a radiant Togyoman Ajari, "Saintly Master of the Severe Practice."
Most gyoja report that they pass out for a second or two when they emerge from the temple out onto the veranda, in what is evidently a sudden transition from death back to life — for the gyoja, according to physiologists, who have examined them at the conclusion of the rite, manifest many of the symptoms of a "dead" person at the end of the diori. As diori nears conclusion, the gyoja experience a feeling of transparency. Nothing is retained; everything — good, bad, neutral — has come out of them, and existence is revealed in crystal clarity.
Some may condemn this type of severe training as a violation of Sakyamuni's Middle Way, but such death-defying exercises lie at the
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heart of Buddhist practice. There would be no doctrine of the Middle Way if Sakyamuni had not nearly fasted to death, subjecting himself to the most rigorous austerities to win enlightenment. Asceticism did not get him enlightenment, but it did lead to his transformation into a Buddha. This is why the emergence of a marathon monk from doiri is compared to Sakyamuni Buddha's descent from the Himalayas following his Great Awakening. As one of the gyoja's relatives remarked, "I always dismissed Buddhism as superstitious nonsense until I saw my brother step out of Myo-o-do after doiri. He was really a living Buddha." . .
Around 3:30 A.M. the gyoja, twenty to thirty pounds lighter, returns to his room, where he is greeted by his family and other well-wishers, receives a shiatsu massage, and sucks on ice made out of water taken from a miraculous spring on Mount Hira. The gyoja will then lie down for a few hours but only sleep about twenty or thirty minutes. It takes
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two weeks or so before he can take solid food; until then he lives on ice shavings, water, thin soup, sake or amasake (sweet, lightly fermented rice wine), and pudding. Nor does he sleep much the next several weeks, averaging two or three hours a night.
Following successful completion of the "seven hundred days of moving and the nine days of stillness," the gyoja are indeed men trans formed. Grateful to be alive, full of energy, fortified by a vision of the Ultimate, constantly moving toward the light, and eager to work for the benefit of all, the monks head into the final stages of the marathon.
In the sixth year, the route lengthens to include a round trip to Sekisan-in at the base of Hiei (Sekisan Kugyo). The Sekisan Marathon along the extremely steep Kirala Slope...increases the course to 60 : kilometres (37.5 miles), requiring fourteen to fifteen hours for stopping at all 260 stations of worship.
The seventh and final year again has two 100-day terms. The first — perhaps the supreme athletic challenge of all times — consists of a daily 84-kilometer (52.5 miles) run through the environs of Kyoto. The run encompasses the 30-kilometer walk around Hiei, the 10 kilometres ; of Kirara Slope, and the 44-kilometer circling of Kyoto. This is the equivalent of two Olympic marathons, and it is not run once every four ; years but performed 100 days in a row. During the aptly named Great Marathon (0-mawari), the monk sets out from Hiei at 12:30 A.M., covers the 84 kilometres over the next sixteen to eighteen hours, and then arrives, sometime between 4:00 and 6:00 in the afternoon, at a temple in the centre of Kyoto to rest for a few hours. The following day, beginning at 1:00 A.M., the monk reverses the course....
In addition to the three hundred or so stations of worship, the gyoja blesses hundreds of people each day (thousands on weekends and holidays). People of all ages sit bowing along the road to be blessed by the touch of the gyoja's rosary on their heads, diseased portions of their bodies, crippled limbs, hospital robes, or even on photographs of their loved ones. The gyoja is considered to be a vehicle, if not an incarnation, of the great saint Fudo Myo-o, with the capability of transferring his merit to others. The Great Marathon is truly the practice of bestowing merit on others; while the monk's previous runs were solitary pursuits deep in the mountains, this marathon is for the benefit of all those struggling to survive in the midst of a big city, a silent turning of the Wheel of the Dharma, preaching by example rather than with empty
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words. Since the Great Marathon takes place in summer, the colourful procession of Tendai priests, lay believers, photographers and film makers, interested observers, joggers, and other assorted hangers-on literally stops traffic in the busy tourist season.
Negotiation of the 84-kilometer course is made somewhat easier by the use of a "pusher" on straightaways. A padded pole is placed at the small of the monk's back while the pusher applies a gentle force. If the pusher (a different person every day) has a lot of experience, he can supply as much as half the locomotion needed by the marathon monk on long stretches. If, on the other hand, the pusher is a novice or a young parishioner who cannot keep up with the monk, the extra assistance is nil. (Some marathon monks dispense with the pusher for part or all of the course.) Another attendant carriers a small folding chair along, placing it down the instant the monk is held up by traffic lights or crowd control. Perhaps because of the constant encouragement and excitement of being welcomed by crowds of admirers, the gyoja come through the Great Marathon in surprisingly good shape despite the almost total lack of sleep. Such sleep as they do get is deep, sound, and refreshing. An old saying goes: Ten minutes of sleep for a marathon monk is worth five hours of ordinary rest.
During the Great Marathon the monk is supported by dozens of sokuho-ko parishioners. This special group of supporters accompanies the monk on his rounds, directing traffic and carrying equipment, preparing his meals, washing his clothes, and attending to his other needs. Some of the sokuho-ko — the position is inherited from generation to generation — have been serving in this way for decades, covering nearly as much ground as the gyoja themselves.
The final 100-day term on the regular course is a snap; on day 1,000 the gyoja, who has run enough to have circled the globe, is declared to be a Daigyoman Ajari, "Saintly Master of the Highest Practice." Several weeks later the marathon monk visits the Kyoto Imperial Palace to conduct a special thanksgiving service known as dosoku sandai. When the emperor maintained his court in Kyoto, everyone had to remove his or her footwear before entering the grounds. A Hiei marathon monk was the sole exemption from this custom — he alone could enter the palace clad in straw sandals. The ceremony evidently originated with the kaihogyo Patriarch So-o's visits to the palace centuries ago to cure the imperial family's ailments.
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The final rite of the initiation: the 100,000-Prayer Fast. The fire ceremony
consumes all evil passions and purifies the consciousness
There are two other practices integral to the 1000-day marathon. The first is the annual Katsuragawa Retreat (Katsuragawa Geango) held from July 16 to 20. Gyoja who have completed at least one 100-1 day kaihogyo term gather on Hiei on July 16. (Some gyoja from outlying districts walk hundreds of miles to get there.) Lining up in order of seniority (according to the number of retreats attended), the gyoya set out from Hiei at 4:00 A.M. for Mount Hira, 30 kilometres (18.8 miles) I distant. The impressive body of gyoja — in certain years they can number as many as fifty — descend en masse from the mountain and pass through Otsu City on their way to Katsuragawa, arriving in the valley , about twelve hours later. ;
During the retreat, the gyoja fast and conduct various rites. The highlights of the retreat are, first, the taikomawashi festival, in which the new gyoja, in imitation of So-o's leap into the waterfall to embrace Fudo Myo-o, bound off a large rotating drum and into a crowd of excited spectators; and, second, the secret rite at Katsuragawa in which the
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gyoja, firmly anchored by a lifeline, actually throw themselves into the cascading falls.
Since the Katsuragawa Retreat is devoted to the memory of So-o, it takes precedence over all else, and marathon monks doing 200 days a year interrupt their running to attend. Thus the actual number of days on the road is more like 980 than an even 1,000, although recently the monks have been adding on the extra days after formal completion.
The final rite of the initiation for the marathon monks is the 100,000 prayer fast and fire ceremony, the jumanmai daigoma. One hundred days before the ceremony, the gyoja embarks on a stringent fast. All grains — rice, wheat, soy beans, and the like — plus salt and most leafy vegetables are prohibited. Consequently, the monk is obliged to live on potatoes and other root vegetables, boiled pine needles, nuts, and water. The fast dries the gyoja out, almost mummifying him, so that he will not expire of excessive perspiration during the eight-day fire ceremony in which he will sit in front of a roaring fire, casting in prayer stick after prayer stick. On each stick a supplicant has written a petition, which the gyoja "relays" to Fudo Myo-o. Usually the number of prayer sticks exceeds 100,000, going as high in some cases as 150,000. Although this fast is one day shorter than that of doiri and a few hours of sitting-up sleep is permitted, most gyoja feel that this is the greater trial — it is in the early stages, "like being roasted alive in hell".
Here again, the gyoja eventually becomes one with the fiery presence of Fudo Myo-o, consuming all evil and purifying the world. The Great 100,000-Prayer Fire Ceremony takes place two or three years after completion of the 1,000-day marathon. It is not obligatory, but most of the modem marathon monks undergo it, partly to raise money for new construction projects — people donate money for each prayer stick that they write. Sakai Yusai is the most recent monk to have done the ceremony, the sixth since the end of World War II....
How do the monks train for this ultimate marathon? Young novices build their strength by doing lots of manual labour — chopping wood, carrying heavy provisions from temple to temple, doing repair work on stone fences and stairs. They also spend years acting as attendant to a senior marathon monk, accompanying the master while loaded down with baggage or acting as a pusher, matching the monk step for step.
What do they eat? The meals on Hiei are vegetarian — shoji yore,
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"food for practice" — and the monks thrive on what most modem athletes would consider a woefully inadequate diet. The following is a typical menu of a marathon monk:
1:30 A.M
7:00 A.M.
10:00 A.M.
before starting out): a bowl of miso soup with tofu
(upon completion): miso soup, a bowl of rite gruel with daikon leaves, grated daikon with soy sauce
herbal tea, honey and lemon water
12:00 NOON
(main meal): half a bowl of rice, noodles, boiled vegetables, tofu with sesame seed oil, natto (fermented soybeans), seaweed, pickles, and a glass of milk
2:30 P.M.
6:00 P.M.
potato dumpling
a bowl of rice gruel and soup
The marathon monks will occasionally take fish in the off-season and richer foods such as tempura, yuba (dried soybean cream), and sweets. Most favour several kinds of tonic drinks, concocted from herbs, lotus root, ginseng, and other secret ingredients. During the one hundred days prior to Jumanmai Daigoma, the monks subsist on buck wheat flour, nuts, potatoes, cabbage, and pine needles.
Older gyoja eat even less than the typical monk. Sakai, for example, takes two meals a day consisting of one plate of noodles, two boiled potatoes, half a cake of tofu with sesame seed oil, and boiled vegetables. This adds up to about 1,450 calories a day. According to modem dietary science, Sakai must use at least 2,000 calories during his 40 kilometre runs and therefore should be shedding ten to fifteen pounds a month. Far from wasting away, however, Sakai retains his robust physique.
Marathon monks must get by on a minimum of sleep; consequently, they become expert cat-nappers, catching a few winks while waiting for traffic lights to change or at other lulls in their daily schedules. The monks learn to sleep sitting or even standing up, and most in fact prefer not to lie down to nap because that confuses their sense of time. Unsure of the correct hour, monks sometimes leap up from a mid-day nap, jump into their outfits, and race out of the temple. While on the road,
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they develop the faculty to rest different sections of the body as they move along — "Now I am resting my shoulders, now I am resting my hips, now I am resting my knees," and so on.
Other essential factors are proper rhythm, breath control, and intense concentration. The marathon monks harmonize their pace with the "beat" of the Fudo Myo-o mantra, which they chant continually, and cover meters and meters on each deep abdominal breath. An experienced marathon monk flows along naturally, maintaining the same speed for climbing up or coming down. The monks cannot allow themselves to be distracted by any obstacle, whether external or internal. They must be quite similar to the famed lung-gom-pa runners of old Tibet. Scores of explorers to Tibet and Mongolia recorded encounters with these running monks, who appeared to bound across the immense grassy plains; apparently in a trance, they could travel non-stop for forty-eight hours or more, covering over 200 miles a day. Since accomplished lung-gom-pa runners were faster than horses over long distances, they were often employed as a human "pony express" to convey messages across that huge country.
Interestingly, in order to qualify as a lung-gom-pa runner, a trainee first had to master seated meditation. Must emphasis was placed on breath control and visualization techniques — for example, imagining one's body to be as light as a feather. After acquiring good breath control, a novice was instructed to practice in the evening by fixing his gaze intently on a single star as he ran and coordinating his pace with a secret mantra given to him by his teacher. The runner must keep his eyes fixed on the star (or some other equally distant object) and never allow himself to be distracted. Once lung-gom-pa runners attained the proper level of moving meditation, they could fly like the wind, virtually; gliding along in the air in a state of deepest contemplation.
The marathon monks of Mount Hiei achieve similar results with their training methods, but the secret of their success lies in their spiritual rather than their physical strength. The spiritual strength — derived from the desire to realize Buddhahood, for the sake of oneself and the sake of others, in this very mind and body — is the key to the question "What makes the marathon monks run?"
Buddhism can never be understood purely through the intellect; it must be experienced: "Learn through the eyes, practice with the feet." The manner in which a suitable practice unfolds is known as innen in
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Japanese. In is composed of the inner factors, the stirring up of the Buddha-mind from deep within; en are the circumstances in which the drama is played out.
A man is drawn to Hiei and then to the path of a marathon monk. The gyoja have said that as soon as they don the robe of a marathon monk, all other concerns vanish; they gravitate toward the mountain paths, compelled by a powerful force that suffuses them with energy. The first 700 days of training are to enable the marathon monk to establish himself; it is a pilgrimage carried out in the immense silence of the Absolute on a remote, majestic, and mysterious mountain where gods and Buddhas dwell. Leaving behind the cacophony of the restless, relentless world, the monk isolates himself to live every day as if it were his last.
Midway on the marathon route the road narrows to a tiny footpath. To the left the runner looks down on Kyoto, a sea of lights wherein all the attractions, good and bad, that the world has to offer hold forth. To the right is Lake Biwa, sparkling in the moonlight, calm, clear, and empty. The marathon monk hovers briefly between' the two spheres of worldly entanglement and Buddhist enlightenment and then presses on, hoping someday to transcend both.
In the last 300 days of the marathon, the focus shifts. The monk emerges from his hibernation, possessed of a certain measure of wisdom and compassion; to roam in a big city among all sorts of human beings, spreading light and happiness. A balance is struck between practice for one's own sake and practice for the benefit of all.
At the end, the marathon monk has become one with the mountain, flying along a path that is free of obstruction. The joy of practice has been discovered and all things are made new each day. The stars and sky, the stones, the plants, and the trees, have become the monk's trust ed companions; he can predict the week's weather by the shape of the clouds, the direction of the wind, and the smell of the air; he knows the exact times each species of bird and insect begin to sing; and he takes special delight in that magic moment of the day when the moon sets and the sun rises, poised in the centre of creation. Awakened to the Supreme, one marathon monk described his attitude thus: "Gratitude for the teaching of the enlightened ones, gratitude for the wonders of nature, gratitude for the charity of human beings, gratitude for the opportunity to practice — gratitude, not asceticism, is the principle of
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the 1,000-day kaihogyo." Indeed, on the last day of the 1,000-day run, the monks have a saying: "The real practice begins from now."
The marathon monks are devotees of Fudo Myo-o (Acala Vidya raja), the Unshakable King of Light. Fudo has a fearful face, terribly troubled by the world's inequities, its stupor, and its implacable hatred of the Dharma. Encompassed by a fiery nimbus, Fudo burns up evil passions while illuminating the darkest comers of existence. His lasso can be used to bind devils or to pull those in distress out of the mud. Fudo's sword hacks off the heads of those who pollute the world but at the same time slices through all obstacles to reveal the deepest wisdom. As an incarnation of the cosmic Buddha Dainichi (Mahavairocana), Fudo is the active element of salvation, capable of channeling his awesome power to others. The marathon monks strive to become one with Fudo, to actually perceive that dynamic image as a living force and to tap that awesome energy. When questioned about this experience the marathon monks remain mum, but senior gyoja know when their disciples have had the vision, the greatest of all rewards: "You have seen him, haven't you? Now you have the look of a real marathon monk!"
The Story of Sakai
If ever there was an unlikely candidate for Buddhahood it was Sakai Yusai, the ninth sennichi kaihogyo of the modern era. Sakai was born in Osaka in 1926, the eldest son of a family that eventually contained ten children. His father was a rice merchant, and when he went bankrupt speculating in the grain market the family moved to Tokyo, where they lived hand to mouth for some years.
Sakai's relatives and friends remember him as something of a cry-baby, a sleepyhead, and a very dull student. He was, by all accounts, unexceptional, although the family recalls that he was never attached to his possessions — if he won at marbles, he world immediately return his winnings to the loser, and he would give away his pencils or toys with out hesitation to his brothers and sisters if they .asked for them.
Following elementary school, Sakai enrolled in night school and worked at a military hospital laboratory to help support his family. (He later learned to his dismay that the lab specialized in the production of chemicals for germ warfare.) The family financial situation worsened when Sakai's father was drafted, despite his large number of dependents,
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and sent to the front in China, where he was seriously wounded. Sakai was so hungry at this time that he often stole and ate the feed for the lab animals. The teachers at Sakai's school informed him that because of poor attendance and low marks he could never graduate as a regular student. The only option open to the failing student was to enlist in the army, which would guarantee automatic graduation. Sakai did so, and ' in 1944, he was assigned to a naval base in Kagoshima, Japan's southernmost island — an area exposed to the full wrath of the American air force.
By that time Japan had lost the war for all practical purposes, and few of the pilots in Sakai's division returned from their futile sorties. : American bombers from Okinawa began raiding Sakai's base, raking it daily with machine-gun fire and bombs. As soon as Sakai and the rest of the ground crew repaired the runways, they would be attacked again. The death of his comrades and the futility of war anguished the young soldier: "Why have so many fine men perished while a no, account like me remains alive?" Japan surrendered in August 1945; the men at Sakai's base were told that the war effort had been "suspended" and they were all to return home. The transportation system , had been largely destroyed, and it took Sakai nearly a month to make it back to Tokyo.
When he reached the desolate city, Sakai found his family alive, but ' everything else had been lost in the firebombing. He found a job as a clerk in the Hosei University library and worked quietly there for two years. He and his father then opened up a noodle shop in an entertainment district; the shop prospered, and they also did brisk business selling daily necessities, at the time in very short supply, on the side. Sakai procured those items on the black market. Tragedy struck when fire in the neighbourhood engulfed their restaurant. They were unable to rebuild the business, and Sakai became a full-time black-marketeer. He did well for himself on occasion but ultimately lost his shirt in the panic of 1954.
Thereafter, Sakai aimlessly drifted from job to job. He married a cousin, but the shy, retiring girl adjusted poorly to the match — within a month of the wedding, she returned to her family's home in Osaka. Sakai quit his job in Tokyo and rejoined his wife in Osaka. He was unable to learn the nature of his wife's discontent, and she seemed to improve. Two months later, however, she killed herself.
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Shattered, Sakai lived purposelessly, working as a shipwright in a large boatyard. When he was thirty-five years old, one of his aunts took along her listless nephew on a visit to Hiei. At first Sakai thought to himself, "Why on earth did she drag me to this awful place?" Yet he was also strangely attracted to the quiet on the mountain and the stately demeanour of the priests, perhaps remembering past visions of his grandfather, whom he had once seen dressed up in full yamabushi regalia.
On his days off, Sakai would wander around Hiei. On one such occasion he saw Miyamoto Ichijo emerge from Myo-o-do on the last day of doiri, an impression that remains with him to this day. After learning about the practice of kaihogyo, Sakai began doing informal pilgrimages in the Osaka area near his home and occasionally making the return trip from Hiei. to Osaka on foot, a good 50-kilometer hike. One day Sakai decided to ask Kobayashi Ryusho, a Hiei priest he greatly admired, to accept him as a lay monk on a month's trial basis. Such a request is not at all unusual on Hiei, a kind of last hope for unrepentant sinners. At the same time there was a furniture dealer at Kobayashi's temple who had been sent there by his family to cure him of habitual gambling. Kobayashi took both lost souls in, and the two men helped out with temple chores — chopping wood, cleaning the grounds, preparing meals, and attending the services. Near the end of the month-long trial the two lay monks secluded themselves in the temple and chanted the names of the three thousand Buddhas, each recitation accompanied by a full prostration. The gambler, cured of his affliction, returned happily to Kyoto, but Sakai wished to remain on the mountain. Kobayashi felt that Sakai was different from the other troubled souls who worked out their problems with a dose of Tendai practice and agreed to sponsor the forty-year old for ordination. Sakai, the man who — in his own words — "had experienced hell," became a Tendai priest at the end of 1965.
Kobayashi sent Sakai to do his initial training under one of his disciples, Odera Bunei, head priest of Reizan-in. Odera, seven years Sakai's junior, was a dedicated scholar-priest. As a young monk he had studied in Burma for two years, following the Theravadin rule, the only priest from Hiei to finish the two-year term. The one-time dunce Sakai was inspired by the example of Odera, a recognized expert in Tendai thought, who stayed up late every evening poring over his books after a
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full day of conducting temple business.
A novice monk is a novice monk regardless of his age, and Sakai cheerfully fulfilled the tasks required of newcomers. He cleaned, shopped, cooked, and helped tend Odera's five little children (including a pair of twins), taking them to the park to play, feeding them, and changing their diapers. Sakai's family, with the exception of his grand father the yamabushi priest, had never been religious, and they were all shocked to learn that their relative was acting as a temple servant with out pay.
Sakai enrolled in the Hiei Higher Academy in 1966 and, in a miraculous turnabout, passed both the basic and advanced course with honours. In fact, his graduation thesis, "Dengyo Daishi"s Theory of Gods and Buddhas," won the "Abbot's Award" as the best student essay of that year.
In 1971 Sakai embarked on a three-year retreat in order to qualify as a head priest of one of the temples on Hiei. The following year he completed his first 100-day term of kaibogyo and then decided to attempt the 90-day ceaseless nembutsu. Uncharacteristically, Sakai did
Sakai performing "water-fall
training" to purify himself.
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not consult with either Kobayashi or Odera before submitting his petition to Enryaku-ji headquarters. When they heard of the plan both opposed it because of Sakai's advanced age and the severity of the practice. One monk in the nineteenth century had attempted the cease less nembutsu; his legs swelled to twice their normal size, he collapsed in the training hall, and he died a week later with these words: "Please do not let anyone do this anymore."
Since that time there had been no candidates for the practice until Sakai and a classmate at the Hiei Higher Academy, Takagawa Jisho, applied. Like most of the top gyoja, Takagawa came from general society rather than a temple family, entering Mount Hiei at age twenty. After much discussion among the senior priests, permission was grant ed to the aspirants. From June 1 to August 30 Sakai and Takagawa were sequestered at the twin temples of Jogyo-do and Hokke-do.
The ceaseless nembutsu involves constant revolution around the hall while chanting endlessly, "Hail to Amida Buddha, Hail to Amida Buddha." In the beginning, Sakai felt as if he were walking on air gliding around the hall; later it was if he were traipsing through deep mud. He slept poorly in the two hours of rest-meditation that he was allowed each day, and during the walking he sometimes lost consciousness temporarily and fell asleep against the railing for five minutes or so. Near the end of the ninety-day term Sakai perceived himself moving along a narrow white path over a raging river. Even though he was revolving around a square room, Sakai distinctly sensed himself walking in a straight line as the path opened before him. The ghosts and goblins that had previously threatened him turned into the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas of the Lotus Sutra, and all was peace and light. Sakai recalls reposing in a timeless state, one with Amida Buddha.
Kobayashi, concerned about Sakai's condition, frequently visited the training hall during the night to check on his disciple. He was surprised that Sakai's voice was consistently stronger than that of Takagawa's next door, even though the other monk was twenty-one years younger.
In 1974 Sakai finished his three-year retreat and went to Tokyo to call on his ailing father. He also made a pilgrimage to Buddhist holy sites in India. After his return to Hiei and assumption of the position of abbot of Hoju-in, Sakai resolved to undertake sennichi kaihogyo. Since he was intent on selecting the hardest course, he petitioned the
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demanding master Hakozaki to accept him as the restorer of Imuro Valley sennichi kaihogyo.
Hakozaki was the harshest taskmaster on Hiei; in addition, Choju-in was an isolated place with few visitors to break the monotony. Consequently, none of Hakozaki's previous disciples had lasted more than a few months on the job — even the exemplary Odera had to call it quits in less than half a year. One unsuccessful postulant recalls working with Hakozaki in the fields: one day Hakozaki nearly severed his toe with the sharp hoe, but he refused to stop until all the work was done. The sight of the abbot's bloody toe, attached to his foot by a sliver of flesh, flapping back and forth, was more than the young trainee could bear, and he fled the temple. Normally Sakai would have been spared regular temple duty as a Hiei abbot, but since he was the only other monk at Choju-in, he was obliged to act as Hakozaki's attendant.
As mentioned above, Hakozaki had restored the Imuro Valley course in 1943 and conducted a 100-day kaihogyo term there. Another monk, named Otsuka, did a 100-day term over the course in 1970 or 1971, and Sakai began his effort to permanently reestablish the Imuro Valley course in 1975. Hakozaki was then too old (age eighty-two ) to take Sakai around the course, so Otsuka and Miyamoto Ichijo, who had . been entrusted with Hakozaki's maps and charts, went over the route with him. Sakai was forced to make a few alterations because portions ; of the course had been completely washed away by flash floods or ; blocked by new road construction. Sakai began his 1,000-day pilgrim; age on April 7, coincidentally the birthday of his master Hakozaki and the anniversary of his wife's death. Hakozaki's advice: "Ever onward; never look back."
On top of his daily kaihogyo of 40-kilometers, Sakai had to handle all of the cleaning, cooking, and laundry for the two of them. He rose j each day at midnight, purified himself in the temple's two waterfalls, conducted the morning service, and then set out on kaihogyo around 1:30 A.M. Upon his return to Choju-in at around 8:30, he attended to all the chores. Under normal circumstances, Sakai would have been able to retire around 8:00 P.M., but Hakozaki was, at the time, in the habit of taking a nightcap, and Sakai, of course, had to heat and serve the sake. Word got out that the exuberant Hakozaki was treating guests to copious amounts of rice wine; consequently, almost every night parishioners showed up to keep the old master company. Sakai was on duty
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until the final visitor staggered home, and after cleaning up he barely had time for an hour or two of sleep.
Sakai has said that of all the trials he has undergone, the first two years at Choju-in were by far the worst. Hakozaki was deliberately testing Sakai's mettle — like all true masters, he wanted his disciple to surpass him — and the old priest gave Sakai no rest. When Sakai, for instance, began to prepare meals in advance to save a few precious moments, Hakozaki rejected the food with a curt "This is stale!" Sometimes when he did prostrations in the temple, Sakai was so sure that he would die of exhaustion on the route that he began to carry the equivalent of several hundred dollars in cash on his person rather than the customary symbolic few cents as consolation money for whoever discovered his body and arranged for his funeral.
Sakai survived, and during the fourth 100-day term he achieved a breakthrough — he was no longer troubled by visions of his dead wife and army pals or other distracting and disturbing thoughts, nor was he tormented by physical and spiritual pain. He successfully completed doiri, with most of his family in attendance on the last day, and seemed to be safely on his way to finishing the full 1,000-day term.
The path of gyoja is never completely smooth, however. About a week before setting out on the Sekisan Marathon, Sakai was doing preliminary training in the mountains when he was attacked by a wild boar. There had been piles of snow on Hiei that winter, and the boar, a touchy beast anyway, was probably starving and thus charged the monk in a furious attempt to drive away a perceived threat to its food supply. As Sakai leaped out of the way, he was either slashed by the boar's tusks or lacerated by a sharp branch. Sakai ignored the wound, but it soon festered, and after a few days of Sekisan Marathon his first two toes had swollen to twice their normal size and turned deep purple.
The toenail on his big toe had fallen off, and the pain was so intense that he shrieked in pain with each step. Unable to continue, Sakai sat down on a rock on an isolated spot, pulled out his "suicide knife," and lanced the wound; blood and pus gushed out, and Sakai fell into a faint. He pointed the knife at his throat so that if he fell the blade would pierce the skin and he would remain faithful to his vow to kill himself if he failed to complete the course. Thirty minutes later, the groggy monk recovered slightly from the shock, wiped off the wound, and proceeded to Sekisan-in, where a crowd of believers awaited his arrival.
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Showing up at the temple gates an hour late, Sakai apologized for the delay, explaining sheepishly that he had "overslept." Sakai washed off the wound again with temple well water, rested a bit, and then started back on the return trip. Out of sight of the believers, he fainted again but recovered in about ten minutes. Sakai knew now that he was tap ping a higher power just as he had been at the darkest moments of the ceaseless nembutsu practice. Reliance on human strength was out of the question; Sakai felt he must have been propelled along by a superior force.
Even though the injury never healed properly for the duration of Sekisan Marathon, Sakai miraculously completed the term. Another Hiei priest heard the story and walked by the place where Sakai had lanced his wound; he nearly passed out at the sight of the blood-and pus-splattered rock. Following this incident, Sakai truly earned the respect of his master Hakozaki, and the old priest presented Sakai with this haiku:
The path of practice:
Where will be
My final resting place?
According to the oldest documents, the last three terms should be conducted in the traditional manner, that is, from Mudo-ji Valley, and Sakai conducted the remaining terms from his former temple of Hoju-in. As mentioned previously, the actual number of days on the road usually comes to 975 or 980 because of the time out for the Kat suragawa Summer Retreat. Sakai, ever the innovator, wished to do a full 1,000 days, so after the official ceremony of dosoku sandai, he logged twenty-five more days at Imuro Valley.
Sakai has often expressed his desire to die on the road, and not long after finishing the first 1,000-day term in 1980, he went for a second. This time he finished in six years: 200 days the first and second years, 100 the third, 200 the fourth, 100 the fifth, and 200 the sixth. He came out of his second doiri in better shape than the first. (It is said that the liquid spat back into the cup during doiri is usually dark brown and foul-smelling. In Sakai's case, the second time it was pure white.) The second 1,000-day term was very close to the Buddhist ideal of "Every day is a good day". On day 2,000 films of the sixty-one-year-old marvel
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Sakai stopping at a
temple to have a cup
of tea and chat with
the priest
zooming along the mountain paths were shown on every television news program in Japan. Looking tan and ever so fit, the supermonk announced his intention to realize his dream of kaihogyo to the sacred mountains of China. Sakai did complain, however, about the increased pollution of Kyoto's air: "During the second Great Marathon I nearly choked on the smog, which was much worse than before." He completed the 100,000 prayer fire ceremony and nine-day fast in 1983 and plans another in 1988.
During the kaihogyo terms, Sakai typically sleeps from 9:00 P.M. to midnight. Upon rising he heads straight for the two waterfalls of Choju in, where he purifies himself in each one for a few minutes while chanting the Fudo Myo-o mantra. (Sakai began waterfall training the day after he witnessed the blind and lame Hakozaki enter the falls in
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midwinter.) He then conducts a forty-minute service in the temple and sets off around 1:10 A.M., arriving back at around 9:00 A.M. On non kaihogyo days, Sakai rises at 2:30 for waterfall purification, conducts the service, and then takes one or the other of his dogs for a long walk in the mountains.
When Sakai completed his first 1,000-day term, Hakozaki retired at age eighty-nine, turning over Choju-in to his one and only prize disciple. Hakozaki and Sakai are alike in many ways. Both men became monks around age forty following stormy careers in the world below. Seemingly in an effort to make up for the wasted first half of their lives, they threw themselves into their training and, in terms of accomplishments, they rank as two of the greatest monks who ever practiced on Hiei or anywhere else in the Buddhist world. Sakai refers to Kobayashi and Odera (who passed away at the young age of fifty-two) as his teachers but always calls Hakozaki "Grandfather."
The continually smiling Sakai is rather less intimidating than the gruff Hakozaki and more approachable, a wonderful combination of intensity and warmth. The long years of training and ceaseless introspection have rubbed the rough edges smooth, and Sakai is — as one would expect of a living Buddha — open, wise, and unpretentious. His sanctity is unsanctimonious; constantly smiling — even just before doiri, the "living death" — Sakai unostentatiously makes tea for his guests while chatting away in a lively Osaka accent, answers the phone with a hearty "Hello, this is Sakai," and slips into a threadbare warm-up suit when he has a lot of calligraphy to brush. One of Sakai's favorite calligraphic sayings is the Zen-flavoured "Everyday mind is the way." Sakai never boasts of mystic flights or clairvoyant powers; the only unusual experience he might mention is the breaking of his rosary at the moment of his father's death in a Tokyo hospital.
One unique quality about Sakai is his sensitivity to all forms of life. As he walked through the mountains day after day, he was struck by the incredible energy of the weeds, how they sprout and grow despite all obstacles. Even though weeding is an important Buddhist practice, Sakai stopped weeding his temple garden, explaining: "Weeds, too, have a right to live." This marathon monk is also fond of animals. The beasts he encounters on his runs — birds, rabbits, monkeys, deer, snakes, even boars — he feels are his companions. Sakai keeps a bunch of dogs at his temple, including a couple of real old mongrels, and at
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least one happily wags along with its master on the kaihogyo rounds.
Regarding his practice, Sakai has said: " Human life is like a candle; if it burns out halfway it does no one any good. I want the flame of my practice to consume my candle completely letting that light illuminate thousands of places. My practice is to live wholeheartedly, with gratitude and without regret. Practice really has no beginning nor end; when practice and daily life are one, that is true Buddhism."
This effervescent sixty-year-old marathon monk often exclaims brightly to his visitors, "Life is so wonderful!"
from John Stevens, The of Mount Hiei,
Shambala Publications, Inc,, Boston 1988.
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Myth to History:
Once primitive martial arts had reached the Far East they took root and began the gradual process of diversification into a number of sophisticated branches. Unfortunately there is very little evidence beyond myth, hearsay and speculation that relates to the early growth and spread of the martial arts. Yet fragments of information, drawn from the ancient literary and artistic traditions of China and India, suggest that the martial arts began to develop in these civilizations some time between the fifth century BC, when the mass manufacture of swords began in China, and the third century AD when the exercises on which the martial arts are based were first written down.
If this assertion seems impossibly vague compare it with efforts to pinpoint key events in the history of other ancient arts — cooking, wine-making, cheese-making or farming. The origins of such skills can rarely be traced with any accuracy, but from time to time a document or object is found which proves that by a certain date techniques had changed.
There are very few such documents or objects in the early history of the martial arts. Rather, many martial artists believe that their art began in China early in the sixth century AD.
Their belief is based on a legend that relates how there came one day to the Songshan Shaolin Temple and monastery at the foot of the Songshan Mountains in the Kingdom of Wei in China, a monk from India called Bodhidharma. He taught a new, more direct approach to Buddhism that involved long periods of static meditation. He is said to have sat facing a cave wall for nine years, arid to have instructed the other monks in the same way.
To help them withstand long hours of meditation he taught them breathing techniques and exercises to develop both their strength and their ability to defend themselves in the remote mountainous areas where they lived.
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It is believed that from his teachings was born the dhyana or meditative school of Buddhism, called Ch'an by the Chinese and Zen by the Japanese. The fighting art known as Shaolin ch'uan-fa or Shaolin Temple boxing is held to be based on his exercises. Many Chinese and Japanese fighting arts are thought to have evolved from this tradition.
There is a great deal of doubt about the accuracy of this legend, but some of the historical facts it appears to reveal, if true, are of interest. The legend reflects the fact that mutual interest in Buddhism kept China and India in contact around the sixth century AD, a fact that is confirmed in the work of the great twentieth-century sinologist, Dr Joseph Needham. Furthermore, it implies that from very early times, meditation and martial exercises were complementary aspects of Buddhism; the one passive and static, the other active and moving.
Yet a careful search of the historical sources shows that the martial arts were already blossoming in both India and China long before the journey of Bodhidharma.
The fighting traditions of the Far East
What was military life like in China and India between 500 BC and the third century AD? Were the conditions right for the evolution of the very specialized form of fighting which could later be identified as the precursor of today's martial arts?
The evidence has been neither researched nor presented with this specific academic question in mind, but the ancient military systems of China and India are quite well recorded and enough information exists to give a picture of military life in those times and places. Since war fare and the martial arts are both essentially about fighting, it is useful to take a brief look at the development of the fighting traditions of the ancient East.
Before 500 BC China did not exist as a nation. The territory occupied by the People's Republic of China today was divided into a large number of minor, independent states, whose social systems were essentially feudal in structure.
Warfare was endemic, but armies of peasants, led by local war lords, were often small. The war lords would be driven in chariots to the battlefield to fire arrows upon the poorly armed peasant infantry mustered by their opponents. On occasions they would even hold single combat (a style of warfare that was essentially a martial art), before
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their opposing armies, to decide the issues at stake.
Wars were conducted in a highly ritualistic fashion. They were prohibited during certain seasons and in some other circumstances, such as after the death of a leader. Armies might lounge for days while omens and oracles were consulted to determine the timing of a strike.
Gradually the smaller states were swallowed up by larger ones, and, as prosperity increased, cities of as many as 750,000 people grew up in China. By the end of the fifth century BC trade between these population centres had expanded greatly. Among the items traded by merchants would have been the tools and weapons of high quality that ironmasters were beginning to manufacture on a large scale. A low grade kind of steel was perfected, so the first rulers of the Warring States Period (480-221 BC) were able to equip their armies with weapons manufactured in foundries and stored in arsenals.
An expansion of the ancient state bureaucratic machine provided for equipping and feeding these armies, and also for training them. The art of war, earlier confined to the aristocratic war lords, became the province of professionally trained and equipped officers and men.
As a result, warfare became much more destructive, devious and decisive. Armies of several hundred thousand men, including their sup port forces, took to the field.
With professional armies came a new generation of specialists: experts in engineering, cartography, signals, amphibious operations and so on. The most famous of these was Sun Tzu, a brilliant tactician and strategist whose book, the Art of War (c.350 BC), is still essential reading for all ambitious military personnel. Sun Tzu's thoughts on warfare are said to have influenced Mao Tse-tung.
By 300 BC, therefore, the military arts had passed the stage of martial arts as practised by local war lords. Nevertheless, conditions in other, non-military, aspects of Chinese life may have encouraged the development of the martial arts.
Through the Warring States Period and thereafter, the Chinese countryside was rife with groups of bandits and outlaws. However, there were great profits to be made from interstate trade. Merchants must have employed bodyguards to protect themselves and their goods from brigands.
Employment as a bodyguard, in which small-scale, close-quarter com bat was to be expected, suited the martial artist perfectly. Accompanying
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trade caravans to distant parts of the land would have exposed the bodyguards to the hardening rigours of long journeys under harsh travelling conditions, and to the knowledge and techniques of other body guards. It may have been under these circumstances, then, that the martial arts evolved in the East.
Yet the emergence of a martial art depends on more than the practice of skills and the endurance of hardships. The martial arts have an intellectual content. They embody sets of values and are based on specific views of the world and of man's place within it.
China's two great philosophers had lived during the first half of the second millennium BC. Confucius had laid down theories of man and the way of human society around 500 BC. Lao Tzu is thought to have expounded his mystical vision of man and the tao or 'way of nature' around 300 BC. Taoism is particularly important to the history of the Chinese martial arts, although it is only recently that Taoist martial arts have spread beyond the bounds of Chinese Asia.
Similarly, the philosophy of Buddhism, founded by the Prince Gautama Siddhartha Buddha who was born in north-eastern India around 560 BC, has profoundly affected the martial systems of all countries where the two have met, be it in China, Japan, India or South East Asia.
It was therefore during the latter half of the first millennium BC that the philosophies upon which the martial arts depend were first laid down. Although some arts may have evolved at a much later date, the conditions for their development were established when these creeds were first promulgated.
India has always been a breeding-ground of warriors. The India into which the Buddha was born was composed of a large number of small kingdoms. In some areas tensions led to continual feuding and raiding between kingdoms. Yet occasionally, for example under the great Emperor Ashoka (268-231 BC), large areas of India were united under one leader. Ashoka, Emperor of the Maurya Dynasty, whose empire covered some two-thirds of the Indian sub-continent, began his rule as a warrior king, but after his conversion to Buddhism, he renounced warfare as an act of policy.
Throughout the second half of the first millennium BC, southern India especially was ruled by successive dynasties of kings of different religious convictions. Yet the wars these kings waged were generally
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on a smaller scale, more ritualized and less destructive than those happening in China at that time.
Neither does the same degree of military specialization appear to have taken place in India, as in China. It is likely that in India the martial skills were part of the overall training of an accomplished man, especially one born into an aristocratic warrior class. The classic Indian tradition relating to the accomplishments of an individual are usually attributed to Agastiya, the mythical founder of Indian art and sciences. Among the arts he advocated were martial skills of armed and unarmed combat.
Buddhism never succeeded in ousting the traditional Hinduism as the first religion of India, although it survived there for more than 1,500 years. Yet, when the teachings of Buddhism reached China, they immediately attracted the attention of courtiers, scholars and aristocrats.
Records from history
The military styles of China and India were entirely different and yet there is a close relationship between the martial arts of the two countries. Not only are there similar patterns of movement in, for example, kalaripayit practised by a peasant in South India and kung fu practised by a waiter in Hong Kong, but even the secret techniques are used in similar ways.
Anyone who accepts the Bodhidharma legend as true has no difficulty in understanding this, but early written sources throw no light upon the origins of these similarities.
There has recently been much searching among ancient Chinese texts for proof that the martial arts existed in China before the coming of Bodhidharma in the sixth century AD. The most publicized find so far has been a set of exercises recorded by a famous doctor, Hua Tuo. He based them upon the movements of five animals: the tiger, the bear, the monkey, the stork and the deer. This relationship between animals and movement is fundamental to Chinese martial arts as practised today, but what is most significant is that Hua Tuo lived at the time of the Three Kingdoms (AD 220-65), well before Bodhidharma arrived in China.
In a newly published book, Shaolin Kung Fu by two Chinese scholars, Ying Zi and Weng Yi, the authors claim that a fresco in a tomb dating from the Han Dynasty, about AD 200, shows two men in a martial
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arts stance. The fresco, called Sumo (although it bears no apparent resemblance to the Japanese form of wrestling or grappling called sumo), if authentic, is the oldest painting known to represent the martial arts, but from the photograph it seems to have been repainted.
At around the time that this picture is said to have been painted, ancient teachings were being written down in the Tamil language of South India. These writings included sastras, ancient Indian texts, which described in detail methods of striking the vital points (the spots on the body where a precise blow can knock out or kill) of an opponent, as well as the use of weapons in combat. The Indians claim that these texts are part of a much older oral heritage, but there is no corroborating evidence to support them.
Cultural exchange
The known written sources do not resolve the controversy about the comparative antiquity of the martial arts of India and China. Yet, if there is a mutual relationship between the arts of the two countries, there must in the past have been an interchange between people who needed the kinds of skills the martial arts could offer. For hundreds of years two kinds of people were the principal travellers between India and China. They were monk-scholar-diplomats and merchants. The routes were forged by trade, and merchants making those vast journeys must have needed the protection of bodyguards, just as they had always needed them on their trading journeys over the vast distances of China.
Employment as a bodyguard would have given a training in the kind of man-to-man fighting on which the martial arts were based. Moreover, travelling with trade caravans would have exposed the bodyguards to the influence of the different fighting styles practised by the various races encountered along the way. In this manner, martial knowledge would have been disseminated beyond the borders of India.
The journey from India to China was always gruelling. One route passed through Afghanistan, then north or south of the great Takla Makan desert that lies to the north of Tibet and east of China. By the end of the second century BC the larger part of this route ran along the Old Silk Roads down which Chinese silk passed to the frontiers of the Roman Empire in Syria.
It takes great determination to travel along these roads. Peter Fleming, the great English travel writer of the 1930s, brother of Ian Fleming,
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struggled against weather, bureaucracy and war lords on his journey along the Old Silk Roads, much as the travellers did when forging links with the West some 2,000 years earlier.
Merchants began using this road before the birth of Buddha in the mid-sixth century BC, but as Buddhism gathered strength they were joined by monks from India. Consequently, by AD 65 the first Buddhist community had been established in China.
That event marks the beginning of an invasion of Chinese custom and thought by the culture and philosophy of the Indians. Buddhism gradually became a powerful force within China and as it did so, violent power struggles broke out between Taoists and adherents to the invading religion.
Meanwhile, Indian monks travelling to China to disseminate the Buddha's teachings passed on the road Chinese monks on their way to India. They were pilgrims visiting the holy places where the Buddha had passed parts of his life, and were searching for the sutras and sastras of the Buddha's teaching that had been written down in the traditional manner on palm leaves.
Most famous of these scholar pilgrims was Hsuan-tsang (c.AD 600 64) who travelled the length and breadth of India between 629 and 645. In India he was called Tripitaka, and in that guise he was later immortalized as the pilgrim priest of Monkey, a collection of legends written down by the sixteenth-century Chinese writer, Wu Ch'eng-en.
Tripitaka travelled to India to find the sacred texts, accompanied by Monkey and three other guardian spirits, all of them expert martial artists. The legends, which arose after the seventh century when Hsuan-tsang lived, are full of descriptions of the epic battles they fought with the demons and monsters living along the way.
On his travels to southern India, Hsuan-tsang visited Kanchipuram, a possible birth place of Bodhidharma, where he became a friend of the king, and where his face can still be seen carved on the wall of a temple built shortly after his visit.
The perils of travel were real. He was captured by bandits and escaped, because, as he prayed for help, he went into a trance and a sudden wind blew up, frightening the bandits.
Another monk, I-Tsing, described his own escape in his book The Buddhist Religion as Practised in India and the Malay Archipelago, written between 671 and 695:
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'At a distance of ten days' journey... We passed a great mountain and bogs; the pass is dangerous and difficult to cross.... At that time I, I-Tsing, was attacked by an illness of the season; my body was fatigued and without strength. I sought to follow the company of merchants, but tarrying and suffering, as I was, became unable to reach them. Although I exerted myself and wanted to proceed, yet I was obliged to stop a hundred times in going five Chinese miles... I alone remained behind, and walked in the dangerous defiles without a companion. Late in the day, when the sun was about to set, some mountain brigands made their appearance; drawing a bow and shouting aloud, they came and glared at me, and one after another insulted me. First they stripped me of my upper robe, and then took off my under garment. All the straps and girdles that were with me they snatched away also... There was a rumour in the country of the West (India) that when they took a white man, they killed him to offer a sacrifice to heaven.... Thereupon I entered into a muddy hole, and besmeared all my body with mud. I covered myself with leaves, and supporting myself on a stick, I advanced slowly.' He reached his friends late that night.
It is clear from such descriptions that not all monks were trained fighters, but doubtless, such experiences must have made travelling monks keenly aware of the need to learn the arts of self-defence.
To recapitulate: first, there is no clear evidence that points to China or India as the country where the martial arts first developed into the systems of action and thought that approximate to the Asian martial arts of today.
However, records of many aspects of these ancient cultures have a bearing upon the origins of today's martial arts.
In a purely physical sense, the fighting systems of ancient India, in which a warrior class was expected to be conversant with a wide range of skills, seems to be more compatible with the development of martial arts than the more specialized approach of the military men of China.
At the level of ideology, however, the doctrines of Buddhism in India and of Confucianism and Taoism in China, laid down during the 500 years before the birth of Christ, have been readily adopted as the philosophical basis of martial traditions in India and China, and indeed throughout Asia.
Recorded sources relating directly to the history of the martial arts are too fragmentary to be conclusive. Yet the long history of cultural
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interchange between China and India means that it is highly likely that martial knowledge was shared between these two cultures from the earliest times.
Therefore perhaps it is better not to try to choose between the two countries, but rather to remember the travellers, the monk-pilgrim diplomats and the merchants, who beat the first paths between the two great cultural traditions, and to conclude that the birth place of the martial arts was on the roads that bound these two great civilizations.
The spread of the martial arts
The story of the martial arts from the third century AD has been one of the gradual development of their techniques, the enrichment of their philosophies, and of their slow spread into other countries, usually as a travelling companion of Buddhism.
Many different martial arts have evolved in India and China during the last 1,500 years, and many are still practised, but most of them have emanated from the founding schools; most kung fu, for example, is believed to have evolved from Shaolin Temple boxing. The complete martial arts systems, consisting of ideology plus practice or technique, were exported beyond the borders of China and India to Korea, Japan and South East Asia.
These countries must have had their own fighting arts, but as the superior techniques and advanced ideas from abroad were absorbed by their fighters, they were changed, and the changes resulted in a trans formation of the indigenous systems into true martial arts.
The existing martial arts systems of Burma, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Indochina and Korea are all clearly related to forms of Chinese boxing. However, it is the intellectual content that distinguishes a martial art from a fighting art. Although the dissemination of the martial arts from country to country can be traced, it is not yet clear when the process of assimilation took place and the indigenous arts became martial arts.
The Japanese, who were strongly influenced by Chinese culture, learned the lessons of the ancient masters most thoroughly early in their history. On the basis of Chinese techniques, the Japanese slowly evolved their own martial arts forms. Now, Japan is the richest country in Asia, both in the variety of martial arts and in the numbers practising as a proportion of the population.
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The Western view of the East
In the West, however, knowledge of the martial arts of the East hardly existed before the twentieth century.
It was not until the beginning of the fourteenth century that Europeans set out on the first voyages of discovery. From 1400 onward, successive explorations gradually revealed to them a world whose non European inhabitants astonished them.
Yet the peoples of East Asia remained unaffected by discovery. They showed little interest in the newcomers from Europe, whom they considered barbarians, and were content to remain unexplored.
Having lost traces of their own past, European explorers had to re establish the links forged centuries before by their ancestors. They had forgotten the contact established with India by the Greek King, Alexander the Great, during the fourth century BC; the settlements established in southern India by the Romans during the first century AD, and then by early Christians; and the opening of the Silk Roads, which stretched from the Mediterranean borders of the Roman Empire to Central China as early as the beginning of the first century BC, more than 14 centuries before Marco Polo travelled along them on his journeys of discovery.
Moreover, Renaissance Europe was not the world centre of intellectual life. Four of the world's great religions were created in the Far East. Both India and China had advanced medical systems, and had made great progress in the fields of mathematics, chemistry and astronomy.
In the field of technology, the British sinologist, Dr Joseph Needham, in his erudite series of volumes, Science and Civilization in China, lists 34 Chinese technological innovations that were used in China long before they were discovered elsewhere, and that reached Europe and other parts of the world between the first and the eighteenth centuries AD. Among them were the wheelbarrow, silk textile-producing machinery, the cross-bow, gunpowder, the magnetic compass, paper and printing. On the other hand, only four inventions produced in the West were transmitted to China during the same period. They were the screw, the crankshaft, clockwork and the force pump for liquids.
Knowledge of the Asian martial arts hardly existed before the twentieth century. Around 1900 two or three Englishmen and as many Americans began to learn judo and other Japanese martial arts. Interest grew only slowly, however, until after 1945 when, as a result of the
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enthusiasm engendered by American servicemen who had studied the martial arts while stationed in Japan, the numbers practising increased dramatically.
These learned mainly Japanese techniques, however. The spread to the West of knowledge about the martial arts of other parts of Asia has been even slower. Chinese masters practising in Hong-Kong and Taiwan have begun to respond only recently to pressure from Westerners to reveal their techniques so that their arts can be taught in Europe and the USA.
At least one eastern art has yet to be reported in the West. Even experts have largely neglected the existence of martial arts in the Indian sub-continent. No descriptions of Indian martial arts made during the period of British rule have so far come to light. Yet in India the ancient fighting art of kalaripayit, which has existed in the south for centuries, has not yet been described,
Martial arts systems are exported wholesale to the West. There, people are still learning and it will be some time, perhaps generations, before martial arts systems emerge that can be called European or American in the same way that, say, judo, can be called Japanese.
The Enigma of Bodhidharma
There is some evidence that in the year AD 520 an Indian monk, thought to have been born in Kanchipuram near Madras, travelled to the city of Kuang (modern Canton) where he was granted audience by Wu Ti, an Emperor of the Liang Dynasty. From there he travelled to a monastery in the Kingdom of Wei, where he spent long hours in meditation.
If the legend of Bodhidharma is true and he did visit the Songshan Shaolin Monastery, he is doubly important in the history of the martial arts, for not only did he establish Shaolin boxing, but he is also the first patriarch of Ch'an or Zen Buddhism. As such he is the patron saint of most Japanese martial artists, who call him Dharuma and hang his Bodhidharma
Bodhidharma
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portrait in a position of honour in their dojos or training halls. In these portraits, Bodhidharma is always ugly. He has glaring blue eyes, wild, dark, curling hair and a beard.
The founder of Shaolin boxing and Ch'an or Zen Buddhism is a mysterious person. Biographies were written of many of his contemporary monks, but he, most important of all to the followers of his teachings, is ignored. There exists only one eyewitness account of him in a piece of writing by Yang Hsuan-chih, a Chinese citizen of Lo-yang, in modern Honan, which was completed in AD 547 and is entitled Lo yang chia-lan-chi (Record of the Monasteries in Lo-yang).
The author describes an occasion on which he climbed up to the great Yung Ning Temple with the Prefect of the city of Lo-yang, and there met Bodhidharma: "... at that time also there was the Sramana of the Western lands, Bodhidharma, who was basically a Hon of the Kingdom of Posseur (Persia). Before the marvels of the temple he said he was 150 years old, that he has traversed in all directions many and different kingdoms and there was not the equal of this temple for beauty."
It is possible to date this meeting. The temple was built in 516. It burned down in 535, but from 528 troops were billeted in it, so the meeting must have taken place between 516 and 528.
It is very useful to have an account that seems to prove that Bodhidharma did exist, but it must be considered with caution. Chinese texts were copied many times and there were frequent mistakes in copying. Moreover, mistakes occur in their translation into other languages. This is an English version of a translation from Chinese into French by a famous orientalist, Paul Pelliot, and is therefore doubly subject to error.
Supposing the translation to be accurate, what is its meaning? What language did Bodhidharma use when talking to the author? Was he fluent in Chinese? Did he mean to say he was 150 years old? If he did, was he saying what he thought was true or speaking in riddles in the manner of later Ch'an and Zen monks?
Does the phrase 'basically a Hon of Posseur' mean that he looked like one or was one? Pelliot thinks that it means the 'Hon with the blue green eyes'. The person he was describing could have been an Indian, even if his colouring was fair. In the north-west of India there were many fair-skinned, blue-eyed people.
After this report, which is frustrating because it is incomplete, there
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is hardly a mention of Bodhidharma in any text for almost 500 years. Even Hsuan-tsang, the seventh-century Chinese scholar-pilgrim, who visited both the Shaolin Temple and Kanchipuram 100 years later, fails to mention him. Then, suddenly, around the eleventh century, books appear containing long, complex narratives describing his days in China and his teachings in the martial arts.
This gap of four centuries seems inexplicable. However, there is an argument that fits the facts and provides an explanation.
When the teachings of Ch'an or Zen Buddhism first appeared they were radical, and possibly also heretical. Chinese scholars of the time lived for the study of manuscripts and their religious practices were full of elaborate rituals conducted in temples.
In the Ch'an sect, however, religious practices were simple, there were no manuscripts and even the Buddha was not needed. Ch'an Buddhist teachings say: 'you will find the Buddha if you look directly into your inner essence'. Ch'an Buddhism, a religion in which postulants seek sudden inner enlightenment, is without objects of veneration.
A telling quotation from about 840 sustains this view. A Ch'an master, Hsuan-Chien, is recorded as having said 'There are no Buddhas, no Patriarches. Bodhidharma was merely a bearded old barbarian... the sacred teachings... sheets of paper to wipe the pus from your boils'. Bodhidharma, reckoned among the most important of saints was yet, according to Ch'an beliefs, unnecessary.
Ch'an was eventually to surface at the time of the persecution of other Buddhist sects that took place in China in AD 845. This movement was directed against the wealth and power of monasteries, but since Ch'an did not rely for its existence upon the accumulation of wealth and material objects the Ch'an sect escaped persecution.
Yet as their sect, no longer considered heretical, survived, became established and prospered, the monks, like all religious, would no doubt have felt a need to record the life and to spread the word of their great founder.
The books in which Bodhidharma's teachings were expounded were all written long after his death; and the books of exercises probably not for 1,000 years. However, any shred they may contain of his martial arts teaching must have been changed and diluted through the centuries of oral tradition, so as to be scarcely recognizable today.
Since all the records of the Shaolin Temple were burned in 1928, it is
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unlikely that more documents will be found to prove that Bodhidharma deserves his position as the patriarch of Ch'an or Zen and the martial arts. His teachings, nevertheless, live on through the practitioners of the arts he is said to have founded.
It was the master of the Chinese internal arts, Master Hung I-hsiang, who finally made clear to us the significance of Bodhidharma's teachings. He explained that it was Bodhidharma who introduced into China the notion of wu-te or martial virtue. By this he meant the qualities of discipline, restraint, humility and respect for human life. As he put it: "Prior to the arrival of Ta-Mo, Chinese martial artists trained primarily to fight and were fond of bullying weaker folk. Ta-Mo brought wu-te, which taught that the martial arts are really meant to promote spiritual development and health, not fighting."
The Village Art of Kalaripayit
About an hour before dawn the children of a little South Indian village gather in a nearby quarry. It is lit by fading moonlight and a suspended fluorescent tube. They talk together, their voices quiet against the sudden harsh sounds of an awakening village: a bucket being filled in a well; a long, agonizing burst of coughing. Then the Master arrives and, after proper salutations to the gods and to him, they start their morning session of kalaripayit, the martial art of South India.
They practise for about an hour, twisting and turning with extraordinary agility, the sounds of their breathing always counterpointed by the sounds around them — the calls of the first flight of crows across the brightening sky; the almost silent footsteps of an elephant padding softly on his way to a building site; the earth being swept clean by the mothers of the practising children; and the local temple switching on its tape to send electronically distorted holy music echoing over the fields. Finally, as the sun touches the tips of the coconut palms, the children finish their class and go to school or to work.
As there are no masters nor schools of kalaripayit known to be operating outside India, it is possible to understand why it has been so neglected by students of the martial arts. It is extraordinary, however, that none of the researchers and writers who have been studying the martial arts for many years should have reported the existence of kalaripayit. Those few writers who have mentioned it merely make reference to an imported system similar to karate. Yet it is difficult to believe that any
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one who has watched Indians practising kalaripayit could so describe it. However, because this attitude exists, we feel we must make a case for this almost unknown martial art.
There are two points that need to be established. First, is it an indigenous martial art, or is it imported? Second, has it continued unchanged since earliest times, or did it die out and then revive, per haps in some other form?
It can be proved that the martial arts were practised in South India during the sixth and seventh centuries. Statues in the Temple at Kanchipuram near Madras, built early in the seventh century AD show the use of complex disarming techniques as well as many weapons in use. There are also the eye-witness accounts of Hsuan-tsang, the famous Chinese pilgrim-scholar-diplomat, who wrote of the Indian weapons that he saw on his journey.:
'The chief soldiers of the country are selected from the bravest of the people, and as the sons follow the profession of their fathers, they soon acquire a knowledge of the art of war. These dwell in garrison around the palace (during peace), but when on an expedition they march in front as an advanced guard. There are four divisions of the army, viz.(1) the infantry, (2) the cavalry, (3) the chariots, (4) the elephants. The elephants are covered with strong armour, and their tusks are provided with sharp spurs. A leader in a car gives the command, whilst two attendants on the right and left drive his chariot, which is drawn by four horses abreast. The general of the soldiers remains in his chariot; he is surrounded by a file of guards, who keep close to his chariot wheels.
The cavalry spread themselves in front to resist an attack, and in case of defeat they carry orders hither and thither. The infantry by their quick movements contribute to the defence. These men are chosen for their courage and strength. They carry a long spear and a great shield; sometimes they hold a sword or sabre, and advance to the front with impetuosity. All their weapons of war are sharp and pointed: spears, shields, bows, arrows, swords, sabres, battle-axes, lances, halberds, long javelins, and various kinds of slings. All these they have used for ages.'
Many of the weapons described in this extract from Records of Western Countries Book II by Hsuan-tsang (c.600-64) are still in use today.
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There are much earlier Indian texts, which were written down on palm leaves, and, since wood-eating insects and fungi attacked them, they were copied time and time again over the centuries. Indian scholars make a special study of dating such texts, which are on literary, medical and religious subjects, as well as the martial arts. The South Indian texts on the martial arts were written in early versions of Tamil, a language that was first written down after AD 200.
The copying of such texts is still common in South India. They are written with a sharp point on the palm leaves and then rubbed with lampblack which adheres in the cracks made with the point. The present day masters of kalaripayit usually have versions copied from those of their masters.
Another line of evidence for kalaripayit as an indigenous art comes from traditional Indian folk and classic dancing. These have clear relationships with kalaripayit. In ancient Indian classic dance, for in stance, many postures are strikingly similar to those of kalaripayit, and in kathakali dance theatre, one of the four classic Hindu dance-dramas, established during the 17th century in Kerala State in South India, many poses are very similar indeed to the postures of the martial arts.
There are other strong points which support this evidence. From prehistoric times India has had an entire class whose function was to wage war. The kshatriyas, traditionally the military and ruling class, supported their king in his quarrels with his neighbours. As members of a warrior class they had the time to practise, and they were exactly the kind of men who would be ingenious in their thinking about fighting. A warrior class would also keep a fighting tradition alive for as long as it lasted.
However, perhaps the strongest evidence, both for the argument that kalaripayit is an indigenous Indian art, and that it has continued since earliest times, comes from the way in which the art is practised in modern times. If it were an imported art, it would be based in cities and practised by the educated, sophisticated Indians. This is exactly what is happening with karate today.
Kalaripayit is, on the contrary, practised mainly by villagers, who are so notoriously conservative that the idea that they may have been taught a foreign fighting system seems ludicrous. Kalaripayit is deeply embedded in the social and religious life of the peasants over a huge area of South India, and so it must have been for thousands of years.
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The masters of kalaripayit
The lives of the masters in their different villages generally follow the same pattern. After the morning's practice with the children, they turn to their other important function, that of doctors to the neighbourhood.
It is customary in the martial arts that the masters are also doctors. Because of the nature of the art, a person who practises fighting techniques for a long time becomes increasingly absorbed in medical knowledge, since almost every day someone will be hurt in practice. As a young student the master learns how to heal minor bruises and strains, but as he becomes a serious student with the possibility of eventually becoming a master, he will study more widely, learning how to set bones and heal internal injuries. Many masters remain at this level of knowledge, but others go on to study the full range of their indigenous medicine.
A day spent with such a master and doctor while he treats his patients shows how much western medicine is limited by its scientific block busting, pill-dispensing techniques. Even at the level of a village doctor the traditional (Ayurvedic) system of medicine in India shows a depth of care for the patient that is rare in the West.
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Many of the patients are men who have hurt themselves while working, usually by working too hard. A day lost to a poor fisherman while he visits the doctor is a real loss, which continues until the doctor can help him to gain enough strength to go back to hauling the nets.
Deep, powerful massage is a most important part of the healing process. This mainly takes the form of foot massage. The doctor, sup porting his weight on a rope stretched across the room, works his feet over the patient's oiled body.
One of the masters we worked with, Master Mathavan, runs a small private hospital, an old, mud-walled building with deep, thatched eaves set among coconut palms. Inside it is cool, scented by herbs and massage oil carried on a gentle breeze. Babies sleep on the clean earth floor while their mothers are treated by the Master's wife. Outside there is a special herb garden where the medicinal plants grow. There is no profit in such caring; very few patients can pay the few rupees that represent the real cost of their treatment.
After surgery, in the evening when the young men come home from their day's work, it is time once again for kalaripayit.
The northern and southern styles
The name kalaripayit is taken from two words used by the Malayalam speaking people of Kerala. Kalari means battlefield or place, and payit means practice. So the term literally means 'battlefield training or practice'. Kalaripayit comprises two major styles which, being divided geographically, are consequently known as the northern and southern styles.
The northern style is practised mainly by the Nayars, a Malayalam speaking people who are part of the Aryan cultural tradition of North India. The southernmost part of India is occupied by Tamil-speaking people, descendents of the area's ancient inhabitants, who practise the southern style. This style is also taught in Madras, although probably only by Tamil immigrants.
Curiously, there seem to be no masters between Nagercoil on the southernmost tip of India, and Madras. Although no official census has yet been carried out there are probably more than 100 masters of each style. They teach throughout the year except during the hot, dry season, from January to April, when all teaching stops.
Although the northern and southern styles are obviously closely
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related, and kalaripayit generally is quite different from the other martial arts, significant distinctions can be made between the two styles. At the geographical boundary between the two cultural groups and fighting styles there is some overlap. A few Malayalam speakers also practise the southern style in their area.
Northern Kalaripayit is practised in a building of fixed dimensions — 14x7 meters (42 x 21 feet) — with thick walls and a floor that is a meter (three feet) or so below ground level. This building, the village kalari or battleground, is the property of the master, who may also use it as a surgery and massage parlour. Students always practise indoors and at night, so as to maintain secrecy.
Technically, the northern style is characterized by very high jumping and kicking techniques, long strides, low stances, and blows and blocks delivered by arm and hands that are almost fully extended. Warming-up gymnastic techniques are very strenuous. Peculiar to the northern style is a whole range of armed and unarmed forms or patterns of movement called suvadus, and several breathing techniques, probably taken from yoga, that are found in its training regimen.
The southern style is often practised outside during daylight hours. Some masters use outdoor pits or hollows as training grounds, but others simply teach under the palm trees behind their houses. Many southern masters have training grounds in several villages and spend much of their time travelling between them, teaching at each one either at dusk or dawn.
There are fewer elaborate altars to the Hindu gods in southern training grounds, although students of both styles must perform salutations to both their martial gods and goddesses, and their masters, before training. A whole pantheon of gods is associated with the kalari, but the principal figure is Kali, goddess of war.
The southern style contains more circular movements and perhaps looks cruder than the northern. Strikes and blocks are usually delivered with the hands open and the arms bent. The southern ways of using weapons, and southern forms, the basic patterns of movement used in practice, are different from those of the northern style. There are few of the high jumps and kicks found in the north, but higher, more solid stances and a powerful use of the arms, shoulders and torso.
The Southerners are perhaps a little less energetic than the Northerners, but nonetheless impressive in their strength and toughness. They
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constantly fall, roll and are thrown on to the dusty, stony ground, and always come bouncing back with dirt clinging to their clothes and limbs.
Where the Northerners generally concentrate on the perfection of form, the Southerners aim for effectiveness and strength in action. It is not so much the content of the art (which is substantially the same in both styles) as differences in language and culture, and the execution of the movements, which divide kalaripayit into two distinct styles.
In both styles the art of kalaripayit is composed of four branches of combat techniques. There is unarmed training; training with bamboo or rattan sticks; training with a range of weapons; and for the most advanced students there are the secret techniques of striking vital points, known in India as marma-adi. Besides these basic types of training, students also practise disarming techniques against weapons and sticks, and the use of several wrestling holds such as throws, locks and pin holds or techniques for pinning an opponent to the floor. Students learn all these branches of the art from the beginning, but, following the widely held theory that weapons are essentially an extension of the limbs, the emphasis is placed upon unarmed techniques.
Training
In the following pages we shall give a detailed description of the training regimens followed by the schools that we visited and filmed in the Kerala and Tamil Nadu states. Kalaripayit has not yet received the attention it deserves from the rest of the martial arts fraternity and we hope that this report will stimulate other serious researchers into carrying out more detailed and long-term investigations of this ancient and fascinating art.
Kalaripayit as we saw it is still largely a village art, practised in many of the rural communities of south-west India. People become masters only after long and arduous training periods, and most of the 40 or so masters we met were more than 50 years old. Almost all were also masters of the traditional Ayurvedic medicine.
Some masters were very secretive and taught only a few students, others had large, flourishing schools with 40 or more students attending training sessions. These are held during the cooler hours of the day, either before eight o'clock in the morning or around dusk; they last for about one and a half hours. Most masters like to teach their
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students at least twice a week.
The youngest students we saw were youths of ten or so. There were also some beginners of 30 years old, many of whom had been told to begin training for medical reasons. A few girls and young women study the art. Those students who had clearly been studying intensively for several years were superbly fit and had excellent physiques and great agility, speed and endurance.
Before a student begins to train in kalaripayit, he or she must under go daily massage by the master. This loosens and stretches the muscles and tendons in preparation for the exertion of training.
The student is rubbed with coconut oil infused with herbs and lies down on a slightly curved wooden platform. Balancing himself by grasping a rope which hangs about one and a half meters (four and a half feet) above his head, the master uses his feet to massage the student's back and limbs, pushing outward from the centre of the body. He may stand on the student while doing this, but the pressure and pushing movement of his foot is minutely controlled.
Before the master calls his class to order, just as in any martial arts academy in the world, students of all grades mill around practising forms, warming up or sparring lightly. There follows an elaborate pattern of salutations in which each student pays respect to mother earth, the master and the gods of the hall. The salute consists of a complex set of moves — making fighting gestures, walking in circles, touching the ground and kissing the master's feet. The class then forms two lines. Together, they work through a rigorous set of warming-up exercises to tense and stretch
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muscles, tendons and joints. Some of these exercises, such as press ups and sit-ups, are found in most western fitness programmes, but several are peculiar to India.
In one exercise, similar to a press-up, the students put their right arms behind their backs and take up the press-up position. They lower themselves on their left hands to the ground, twisting their bodies at the same time. The degree of suppleness required to perform these exercises at speed is similar to that of an acrobat or contortionist.
The gymnastic part of a training programme is designed not only to warm up the muscles and flex the tendons and joints in preparation for martial training, it also plays a major part in developing fitness. Students may be told to execute 20 or 30 press-ups or similar exercises to improve their circulation and breathing, and also to strengthen the muscles.
After half an hour or so of gymnastics the students go on to practise empty-handed techniques, the basis of their art.
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Empty-handed techniques
The strikes, blocks and kicks of which kalaripayit is composed are rehearsed one after another, sometimes by students standing alone and sometimes in pairs, with one student defending while the other attacks.
As the name implies, most of the strikes are delivered with the hand held open, flat and rigid. The hand in this position may be used like a knife, either to 'cut' with the side of the hand, or to 'stab' using the points of the fingers. The hard, body part of the palm near the wrist, and the clenched fist, are also used for striking. Blocks are mainly circular, that is, the arm makes a sweeping, circular movement to deflect the blow. The forearm is the point of contact.
Most kicks in the southern style are low, and are delivered to the front of the body, but the roundhouse side kick (in which the knee is lifted to the level of the waist, with the foot held out to the side, and the kick penetrates the opponent's side) is also used occasionally. The upper surface of the foot, the big toe and the ball of the foot are the contact points. In the northern style kicks are very high. Some students can raise their front kicks almost two and a half meters (seven and a half feet).
Great emphasis is placed upon evading, rather than blocking, kicks, and to this end many of the pre-set forms consist of leaping from very low stances, then landing in the upright posture. In combat footwork kalaripayit adepts of both styles characteristically lift their heels very high behind them, giving an impression of strutting that is unique to this art. The movement is designed to avoid stumbling on the rough South Indian terrain.
In a blocking technique which is unique to kalaripayit, one fighter raises a foot in a high forward kick to push the opponent's biceps back ward. This technique, which will halt an incoming blow, is very effective,
Grappling techniques
All the techniques we have described so far are typical of the kick-boxing tradition that may date back to the age when Babylon flourished. However, kalaripayit consists of many more techniques than these.
One complex of techniques centres on the use of grappling, locks, throws and methods of immobilizing an opponent. Pressure may be
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applied against joints, limbs twisted or nerve points pressed in order to neutralize the attacker, or to throw him clear. Curved movements and bent limbs, and a relaxed physical and mental state, are needed to exe cute such techniques effectively.
Some of these practices clearly derive from the great Indian traditions of wrestling and grappling, whose roots extend even further than kalaripayit into the past. However, others are not related to this tradition. The complex locks and throws found in Kalaripayit in the soft Chinese arts, today are also found in ju-jutsu and aikido in Japan, in eskrima in the Philippines, and in the highest levels of Okinawan karate. They are generally regarded as the most advanced techniques in the martial arts.
Practising forms
When the techniques have been practised, the master leads his students on to the practice of forms. These are prearranged sequences of movement that the student must repeat continually until he or she can exe cute them perfectly. Each form lasts for about a minute and incorporates 20 to 50 essential techniques. After repeated practice, the students know the forms so well that when faced with an opponent they perform the techniques contained within the forms almost instinctually.
The student moves in straight lines forward and backward and from side to side, using steps of advance, retreat, evasion and so on to link the techniques into one flowing movement, which traces the form of a cross or a square.
Forms, called suvadu in South India, begin and end with a salutation. They are beautiful to watch. Certain techniques may be mirrored, or repeated in different directions. So, if you have just stepped forward to the east on the right leg and punched and blocked with the right arm, the next move may be to turn round, step forward to the west on the left leg and punch and block with the left arm.
In kalaripayit, empty-handed forms can also be reproduced exactly, holding any weapon in the hand. Practising forms with an opponent will produce a paired form of mock combat. This is choreographed, and is therefore entirely different from free-form fighting, in which students are free to use whatever movements and techniques they want as long as they refrain from hurting each other.
Forms are used extensively in many Chinese and Japanese martial
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arts. Some Chinese forms are known to have reached South India centuries ago. Typical of these forms are hand movements which are much more rapid and complicated than the Indian forms. To a trained eye they are recognizably Chinese, although they are far from exact copies of Chinese forms. ;
Forms are intended to instil self-discipline in the performer and to improve balance, timing and precision. Many of the kalaripayit forms involve executing spectacular leaping turns, feints, or sham attacks to divert attention or deceive the opponent, ducking beneath kicks and jumping over strikes. Besides the traditional northern and southern forms are those that individual masters sometimes develop for use with weapons.
Training with sticks
Practice with stick and staff, called silambam in South India, is almost a separate martial art. Recently steps have been taken to establish sporting tournaments and competitions in order to encourage a separate stick art, but kalaripayit masters still teach it in traditional form as part of their syllabus.
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Throughout Asia the staff and stick have always been popular defensive weapons. A stick, the traditional traveller's said, is light and inconspicuous, and presents no immediate threat to another person. As a weapon, however, it is cheap and easy to acquire, strong and durable, and can be used in many different ways. A staff or stick provides an excellent defence against all but projectile weapons. Most staffs, even those made of rattan and bamboo, will stand up quite well even to sharp-edged blades; indeed, it is possible to knock a metal blade from an opponent's hand, or even to break it, using a stick or staff.
Stick and staffs also make excellent training weapons. They are blunt, but inflict sufficient pain to deter apathy in the trainee. Cut to the appropriate lengths they can be made to represent knives, swords, spears, halberds and so on, which can be wielded with ease. They have special advantages in combat since they may be used to stun, immobilize or hurt an opponent without causing serious injury. It is for this reason that they are the chosen weapon of so many of the world's police forces.
Indian silambam sticks range in size from about,15 centimetres (six inches) to a little less than two meters (six feet). Most students use sticks made from rattan, which is quite flexible, but advanced students use hardwood staffs.
The longer weapons are usually held with one hand grasping the centre and the other holding one end. It is a characteristic of Indian fighting, however, that the stick may be grasped with both hands at one end only, and wielded rapidly, so that blows are showered on the opponent. Blocking is often effected by holding the stick with each hand one-third of the way along its length.
Low stances and a rapid fire of blows and blocks typify silambam techniques. Single and paired stick forms are studied first, followed by free sparring, usually between master and student.
Training with weapons
Many stick techniques can be used in conjunction with the other weapons of kalaripayit. One simple weapon, fashioned from two pairs of deer horns tied together, has two sharp stabbing points, and is also excellent for blocking. The Indian dagger, known as Bundi in most parts of the sub-continent, is also excellent for blocking because of its unique handle. Bundis may be used singly, or in pairs.
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Swords, with blades about 65 centimetres (26 inches) long are commonly used by themselves, in pairs or with a buckler or shield. Other kalaripayit weapons include various types of spear, trident and battle axe. There is also an array of improvised weapons such as knife swords made from the noses of sword-fish, and even three-directional knives, that is, knives with three blades, each pointing in a different direction.
The urumi or spring-sword is perhaps the most spectacular Indian weapon. It is made from two or three bands of metal, each about four centimetres (two inches) wide and two meters (six feet) long, joined at one end to a wooden handle. It is difficult and dangerous to use, but, when mastered, is a most effective means of beating off an attack from many people.
Staffs whose ends are fitted with heavy, wooden balls may be used as flying weights, rather like the European mace. Alternatively, they may be covered in rags, soaked in oil, and set alight to frighten and deter opponents. This weapon may have originated in ancient times when fire was used to try to break up the charge of elephants in battle.
Many kalaripayit weapons are reminiscent of medieval weapons. Both the weapons and the techniques for using them may have originated on the battlefield. However, today kalaripayit is more often displayed on ceremonial and festive occasions than in battles, and this has led to an emphasis upon spectacular techniques and weapons, some of which are of questionable martial use. Most of the other techniques in current use are, however, fearsome and efficient.
The medical lore of the masters
As senior students complete their rigorous and extensive training in kalaripayit, some may seek to penetrate deeper into the wisdom and knowledge of their masters. Only a few carefully chosen students are allowed to follow this course, but either or both of two paths exist for those permitted to choose them. Both are concerned with a deepening intimacy with the workings of the human body, and there is a sense in which the two are complementary. On the one hand there is the path to medicine and healing in the great Ayurvedic tradition. On the other there is the way to the secret martial art of marma-adi, the striking of the vital points of the body.
The master, also traditionally the local doctor in this as in every
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martial art, must treat not only the simple injuries, such as bruises and strains to muscles and joints, sustained by students during practice, but occasionally a nerve centre that has been jarred, or a fractured bone. More rarely a student or performer sustains internal injuries to the abdomen or another part of the body. After years of treating a wide variety of injuries he becomes increasingly expert in medical knowledge.
Moreover, in a more strictly martial sense, the Indian masters of kalaripayit have access to a venerable body of medical knowledge first recorded in the sastras, ancient Buddhist texts or treatises that were written upon palm-leaf pages and handed down from master to student.
The Susruta-Samhita, a medical sastra dating from between the second and fourth centuries AD, and written by the Indian physician and surgeon, Susruta, contains specific information about 107 or 108 spots on the body which, when struck, pierced or just squeezed forcibly, will result in temporary paralysis, extreme pain, loss of consciousness or even immediate or delayed death.
These vital points are thought in India to be the junction points of blood vessels, ligaments and nerve centres. Each spot is located in a precisely defined area of the body which may be tiny and difficult to isolate, and must be struck in a particular fashion and with specific force. Only the most advanced practitioners of the art are therefore capable of using this knowledge effectively.
All masters guard every closely their knowledge of the vital points; those whom we met made it clear to us that the little they were prepared to pass on to us should be treated with the utmost respect. For this reason we have reproduced only photographs showing the striking of vital points at spots that are well-known danger points in such disciplines as boxing as well as the martial arts. Targets such as the temple, the sternum, the jugular vein and the testicles are known to most fighters as highly vulnerable points. There is however, a large number of less well known spots which can be used to disable still more effectively.
Many readers may remain cynical about our reticence on this subject. However, hidden in the annals of forensic scientists, both English and Asian, are fully documented details of what will happen to anyone. struck on one of these spots. It is out of respect for the masters and not because of doubts about the validity of the information, that we mention little in this book about the lore of vital points. Those who wish to
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know more must study diligently for many years before any master will trust them with such deadly information.
The secret system of marma-adi adds to the evidence of the depth and antiquity of kalaripayit. It brings the art into line with the most esoteric of its Chinese and Japanese counterparts, which also contain secret knowledge of a deadly nature. Experts, who have compared the locations of the vital spots revealed in ancient Indian texts with the locations known to the practitioners of the modem Chinese and Japanese arts, have found a high degree of correlation.
In accordance with the martial arts tradition, masters of marma-adi in South India know how to resuscitate anyone who has been struck on one of the vital spots. They do this by massage, bone and joint manipulation and the use of herbs and poultices. It is not surprising that they should have gained such knowledge, since occasionally, during training, a student is struck accidentally on a vital spot.
One aspect of the system that is almost unique to South India is that there exist a few men who are masters of marma-adi alone, and who do not practise any other form of martial art.
Ways of controlling elephants
Animals as well as humans have vital spots, many of which are familiar to the Indians. The elephant is known to have 90. By prodding one spot with a sharp stick, the mahout or rider can command his elephant to trumpet; poking another will make it kneel or lie down, turn round, go forward, and so on. There are six spots which, if prodded in a particular way, will frighten an elephant, one which will benumb it and four teen which will cause the animal's immediate death.
VASUDEVAN GURRUKAL
Vasudevan Gurrukal, Master of the northern style of kalaripayit, talked to us about his kalari or training ground:
"In ancient times big landlords had their own kalaris. In the course of time, if they were not used for practice of kalari, they would not demolish them. But instead, they were converted into temples.
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Even if there are no students to practise, a kalari will never be demolished. A sacred lamp will be lit there every day. If there is anyone with good knowledge of kalaripayit they will be able to use it, but if there is no-one to use it, the kalari will remain surrounded by trees, shrubs and creepers. Here it was so when I came. "
Then the Master spoke of the importance of students in kalaripayit:
"The students should be of obedient nature. If they fight with others inside or outside the kalari we expel them at once.
The kalari can be compared with the body of a human being and the students are like the spirit of the being.
Without the body, the spirit cannot exist; without the kalari, the students cannot be.
The students cannot study except in the kalari. Without it, they would be like the spirit which is without the body. Similarly, kalaripayit without the students is useless. It is like the body without spirit. Both are essential.
Students must respect the Goddess of war. Kali, and always show respect to their master. That is where our strength of mind comes from. If we receive the blessings of our master and the Goddess Kali, we receive power. It becomes our habit and we have faith in it. We believe that we get power from our master and the Goddess. Sometimes students will engrave the mantras (sacred passages, usually from the Vedas, the Hindu scriptures) on a piece of metal and carry this around, or tie it around the wrist with a small packet of turmeric powder, kumkum, camphor, or some other medicinal herb, twisted into a kind of bangle.
When I begin teaching a student with a stick or a weapon I pray that he should not use this thing for any evil purpose, that no ill should befall him because of it and that it should be a protection for him from all evil forces.
But whatever the guru teaches, it will add up to only one quarter of that student's knowledge. A quarter he derives from his own personal interest, and from hard work; a quarter comes from God's blessing, and the final quarter comes in his old age from his own personal experiences. "
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Finally, the Master spoke of the moral responsibility of a trained student of kalaripayit:
"We must forgive our enemy. Also, it is our duty to safeguard our families. If we want we can easily kill a man, but we may have to go to jail, and that will affect our families. So we must think of our families, and our enemies' families, and avoid fights, forgive enemies. It is easy to strike a person and to fight, but it doesn't enable us to escape from our responsibilities."
MATHAVANASAN
Mathavanasan, Master of the southern style, chose to explain to us his teachings by relating some of the crucial points in his own experiences of learning kalaripayit, and the associated manna medical systems on which he now concentrates.
"When I was six years old, I went with my father to see a festival at which his basic and advanced students were giving a demonstration of kalaripayit techniques. We were standing at the side, near the back, and because I was a small boy, I could not see what was going on. My father lifted me on to his shoulder and went up to the front, near the stage. When the people who had organised the show saw him, they gave him a seat beside the guests and honoured him. Then was the first time in my life that I wanted to learn kalaripayit.
That day, after the festival, when we were returning home, I asked my father about kalaripayit. What is this? They performed fights with sticks, and wrestling didn't that hurt them? Such were the questions I asked. He said that if we learn the art fully, we will not feel pain. The sticks of others will not fall on our bodies. We can keep our bodies healthy and in good condition by learning the techniques.
So I started learning this art under the guidance of my father, uncles and their friends and students. I continued the studies for years. While I was doing my higher schooling, I studied the sastras, the philosophy behind the higher techniques.
I inherited the post of physician from my grandfather and my father.
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They were marma physicians, and they used to spend most of their time in the field of kalaripayit treatment. I acquired a good knowledge from them, and then went to study further. This background enables me to work with greater confidence, and that brings mental peace.
I do not want to be a very rich man. I just want mental peace. Helping those people who suffer from pain, and those who do not want to live in this world because of some severe illness, is giving me satisfaction. It was for this reason — to help others — that I studied and specialised in marma treatment. It is more difficult than any other medical system. We study the whole body, to understand its system, functions, differences and defects. There is no other study as clear as this one.
I have never studied any other science. Manna is a vast subject, a great and endless science.
The man who has studied marma and kalaripayit techniques should be a useful person to society. He must possess traits such as reverence, civility, humility, patience, self-control, obedience, and kindness towards others. He should be an example to others. This does not apply only to men, for women too should be like this. The masters of this art and marma physicians should never do wrong to others, but should help people. This is the way they should lead their lives.
One thing more you must know. If an enemy comes to attack you, you must keep quiet for some time. You must think well and calmly. Within this time your mind will have some peace, and that peace of mind is the most important thing. If an enemy comes, fighting with him, overcoming him and killing him is not the important thing. That any body can do. If instead of fighting with him you say to your enemy "you have won " and bow before him, that is the biggest deed in the world."
from Howard Reid and Michael Croucher,
Martial Arts,
Eddison/Sadd Editions Ltd,
1983.
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Aiki-do
The life of Master Ueshiba Morihei: acquiring strength
On 14 December 1883, Ueshiba Morihei was born in Tanabe, a small town near Osaka. His father was a master of swordsman ship in the Kii family, lords of the province. Until the age of 15, Ueshiba Morihei had a weak constitution. His small size and lack of physical resistance meant he could get little benefit from his father's teaching.
When he was 13, he met his first master, Tozawa Tokusaburo from the Kito ryu, who taught him jujutsu. So he very soon learnt to wield the spear and the sword. At 20, he was already recognized as an expert in these skills and received a diploma from his master Nakai Masakatsu, when he left the great ryu, Yagyu.
Ueshiba Morihei swore to himself that he would become strong and that he would spare no effort in achieving this aim. At the age of 20, he could already lift enormous weights and feared only a few opponents.
When the Russo-Japanese war broke out in Manchuria, Ueshiba was 21. He volunteered for service and was enrolled as a regular soldier. These years gave him the opportunity to strengthen his body with the toughest of tests. He withstood it so well that his exceptional con duct and his strength, which seemed indomitable, opened wide the doors to a military career.
But once the war was over, Ueshiba's aim was to resume his interrupted
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studies in jujutsu, as quickly as possible. However, his health broke down and he was confined to bed for six months, suffering from a serious attack of encephalitis. On his recovery, he took up judo.
The need for a change of air, to rediscover nature, cultivate the land and above all to strengthen his body, persuaded him to move to the north of Japan, to the island of Hokkaido. He was then 27. A year later, a meeting took place which was to alter the course of his life.
The origin of aiki-do and the cost of learning
This was a meeting with Master Sokaku from the Daito jujutsu ryu.
Master Takeda was a man of small build, of great strength and immensely tough and severe. He flattered himself with belonging to an ancient ancestral line, a branch of the famous Minamoto family. As for his teaching, he traced this back, according to a distant tradition, to Prince Sadazumi 874-916 (sixth son of Emperor Seiwa), who is said to have been the founder of the first forms of aiki-jutsu at the Daito ryu. This secret teaching is said to have been passed on to Minamoto Yoshimitsu. As he lived in Takeda in the province of Kai, he took the name Takeda and henceforth, from generation to generation, the secret principles of aiki-jutsu have been passed on in the name of this family.
During the Meiji period, the head of the family, Takeda Sokaku, opened a private ryu in 1868, the Daito ryu, in distant Hokkaido. For the very first time, pupils outside the family could be accepted by the master. However, only distinguished people (members of the imperial family and some exceptional cases) were permitted the benefits of such instruction.
Takeda Sokaku was therefore above all a master conscious of both his importance and the value of what he had to impart. In Ueshiba Morihei, then aged 28, he recognized a person of exceptional skill and impressive self-control. He complimented him and accepted him as his pupil.
For all that, he did not give him an easy life. Ueshiba had to submit wholeheartedly to the extreme authoritarianism of the master to whom he had to devote body and soul, if necessary waiting on him at all hours of the day and night, preparing his meals, his baths, and even building him a new house. In addition, he had to pay the master between 300 and 500 yens for the teaching of each new technique, which was a large sum in those days.
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Even so, the days spent in instruction were themselves infrequent. In five years, the master only devoted about a hundred days to it. The rest of the time, the pupil had to practise alone. Eventually, in 1916, at the age of 33, Ueshiba received the first diploma appointing him master of jujutsu at the Daito ryu.
The basic elements of modem aiki-do still stem from this teaching.
Meeting with Reverend Deguchi and death of his father
However, events gained momentum. First of all, Ueshiba Morihei, on learning that his father was dangerously ill, made a gift of all his property to his master, Takeda. Leaving behind the land he had made fertile, a village he had built and many warm friendships, he left Hokkaido for good. He was then 35.
On his return journey. Master Ueshiba heard about a man whose powers and great sense of spirituality were praised: the Reverend Deguchi Wanisaburo. He decided to change his route in order to go and visit him. Reverend Deguchi was the founder of a Shinto sect called Omoto-Kyo.
This meeting greatly influenced the life of Master Ueshiba. The centre of Omoto-Kyo was in Ayabe, in the district of Kyoto. When he arrived at his father's bedside, it was too late: his father was dead.
All these events deeply affected Morihei. He went to his father's tomb to pay his last respects. In a moment of intense emotion, he invoked the paternal spirit and swore that henceforth he would devote all his human and spiritual force to probing the secret of being and of budo.
A profound change took place in him. For four years, until he was about 41, he lived in solitary confinement. Faithful to tradition, Ueshiba selected a remote house in the holy mountain, at Ayabe. In Ayabe itself, he frequently met Reverend Deguchi with whom he shared great communion of spirit. For example, it is interesting to quote three of the rules laid down by Omoto-Kyo to enable its followers to get closer to God:
1. Observe the true phenomena of nature and you will be thinking of the body (substance) of the only true God.
2. Observe the impeccable working of the universe and you will be thinking of the energy of the only true God.
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3. Observe the mentality of living beings and you will understand the soul of the only true God.
Reference to energy as a sign of God and creation signifies that the prime purpose of the universe is vitality and that all that exists is simply a demonstration of this vitality.
The understanding of this original and universal energy plays an essential and primordial part in aiki-do, in the form of ki.
Ki
According to the oriental concept, creation is merely the emanation of an original force or an omni-powerful energy, which, out of the chaos, progressively forms masses of dust particles or gas into planets, sun, moon, stars and galaxies. The evolution of this energy created the animal, mineral and vegetable world. If this primordial energy is called ki, all things stem from ki (qi in Chinese).
Being timeless, ki has no beginning and no end, it has no form but can assume any form. It is.
Aiki-do is defined by the way which relates man to the cosmic power, or ki. This idea of man, in harmony with the creative and original force of all things, is also at the root of life and serenity. 'He who discovers the secret of aiki-do', said Master Ueshiba, 'has the universe within him and can say "I am the universe".'
That which is, is absolute, lasting and timeless. Moreover, the master said, 'That is why, when an enemy tries to fight me, he faces the universe itself, he must break its harmony. But the very moment he thinks he has got the measure of me, he is already beaten...' Because thought, be it slow or fast, is outside the limits of time.
A philosophy and a spirituality which, through aiki-do, have attained such a high degree of application, deserve to be followed. The master himself had been seduced by the profoundly humanitarian cosmic ideas of the Reverend Deguchi.
A trip to Mongolia
Deguchi nurtured the idea of unifying the moral and religious meaning of the world. In February 1934, he revealed a highly secret plan to Master Ueshiba and a handful of friends: to go to Mongolia where the Chinese and Japanese armies were engaged in conflict, in order to set
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Ueshiba Morihei, the founder of Aiki-do
up a Kingdom of Peace, by means of a Sino-Japanese alliance, so that the realization of the Kingdom of God could commence in Asia.
However fantastic and illusory such an ambition may have seemed, Reverend Deguchi had many advantages.
In actual fact, 'with the support of Tchang Tso-Lin (or Zang Zuolin), then master of Mukden, he raised an "Independent Army of the North West" which soon numbered ten or so units, and which he put under the command of General Lu Chan-kin (or Shangui). The sun, moon, stars and earth were all depicted on his "divine standard". Pillage was for bidden. Reverend Deguchi with his army roamed the Mongol plains heralding the Kingdom of God, healing the sick and handing out salt and rice. Unfortunately, his success disturbed Tchang Tso-Lin who withdrew his support, sent an army against him and had Lu-Chan-kin (or Lu Shangui) shot, together with the other Chinese officers'. Master Ueshiba was himself captured. As he showed unusual strength of character and willpower, his enemies subjected him to all kinds of
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Ueshiba Morihei, 1961
endurance tests, chained him up and tortured him. A forceful intervention on the part of the Japanese saved the whole troop just in time. Their return to Japan was greeted as a national event. As for Ueshiba Morihei, he returned to his remote house at Ayabe.
The awakening of a Sixth Sense and the heart of the universe
It was during this journey that the famous incident occurred, when Ueshiba was suddenly threatened with death by an enemy six yards away pointing a revolver at him. The man was promptly assaulted by Ueshiba and disarmed. When asked later how he had accomplished such a feat, Ueshiba is said to have replied: a very long time elapses between the moment a man decides to pull the trigger and the moment he actually does so. This event indicates that from that time on he had the ability to anticipate an enemy's thought and actions.
This sixth sense which only a few great masters actually manage to acquire, almost always goes with a deep inner experience which is difficult to describe. It seems that for a time, maybe a fraction of a second, the veil which divides the world of normal perception from that of profound reality suddenly ceases to exist. And this indescribable reality brings about a definitive change in the being. The following testimony by the master himself is just one of many accounts of similar experiences
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which enable one to sense a second imaginary level of reality beneath the surface.
This event took place one day in Spring 1925 (when he was 42), whilst the master was walking in his garden...
Near a persimmon tree, it suddenly became impossible for him either to go forward or sit down. An intense heat came over him, causing his face to perspire heavily.
The master said, T had the sensation that the universe was suddenly shaking and that a gold-coloured spiritual energy, rising from the ground, shrouded my body in a veil, turning it gold. At the same time, my body and spirit became luminous. I could understand the chattering of birds and I had a clear comprehension of the intentions of God, the creator of the universe. At that moment, I was enlightened. I under stood that the source of budo is the love of God, the spirit of loving protection of all creatures. Endless tears of joy ran down my cheeks.
Since then, I have realized that the whole earth is my home, that the sun, moon and stars are all mine. I was freed of all desire, not only for my position, fame or prosperity but also for strength. I understood that budo does not consist of bringing down the enemy by force, nor is it a means to destroy the world with weapons: the pure spirit of budo means accepting the spirit of the universe, spreading peace throughout the world, speaking correctly, protecting and honouring all nature's creatures. I understood that the purpose of budo is to accept the love of God in its true sense which protects and cultivates all living things and that it is advisable to use and assimilate it with our mind and body.'
The master also said that 'the Way of budo is to make the heart of the universe one's own heart.'
During the summer of 1927, the master left the mountain at Ayabe with his family and went to live in Tokyo. His considerable fame pre ceded him and many great names and important well-known people hurried to his home to gain the favour of his teaching. The master formed a group of 30 to 40 pupils of whom most were already masters of judo and kendo.
The master's dojo, called kobukan, became the centre of an exceptional training course. The intensity of the work which continued some times throughout the day and night, formed men of remarkable strength and character.
One of them, Shirata Rinjiro, was once challenged by two strong
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armed men to measure his powers in single combat. Shirata refused, pointed out that the very essence of aiki-do is the art of non-combat. However, as he was nevertheless attacked, Shirata threw his opponent, subdued him with one hand and said to him with good humour, 'You see, can you resist a world of non-resistance?'
Many similar anecdotes illustrate the disbelief of powerful people, wrestling champions, sumotori, boxers, etc., to whom it was inconceivable that a man as small and delicate as the master could not be quickly crushed before their eyes. Inevitably, the opposite always happened: even before the blow they attempted reached its target, they were all without fail thrown by an uncontrollable force.
The secret of this power, bearing the master's words in mind, seemed inconceivable to the spirit. And yet, this force which is used precisely without force is none other than the energy of the universe. 'The movements in aiki-do,' said the master, 'are the movements of nature, whose secret is profound and infinite.' To discover even a fragment of this secret is to understand inwardly that the man is himself the expression of this universe. To discover one's own identity and that of the universe, such is the fundamental experience which is the beginning of everything.
From this point of view, the opponent is once again a mere pretext, a sort of hallucination. Any resistance is just a vision, any obstacle is only there to be overcome and penetrated, just as universal energy traverses, unifies and transforms all things. This energy actually exists; it is breath and movement; it is time and progression; it can appear in many different forms but can only really be mastered and put to one's own use if the intention is pure.
In place of a sword, Ueshiba Morihei also says, aiki-do is a means to banish the devils with the sincerity of our breathing, in other words to transform the world from the demoniac spirit into a pure world. And again, 'the spirit of aiki-do is that of amorous attack and peaceful reconciliation.'
Only practice and almost total self-commitment enable one to discover the full meaning of these words; the highest degree of effective ness is obtained at a sort of peak where the involuntary force becomes active. It is in fact obvious that the individual, freed of inner tension (fear, anguish, passion, etc.) becomes both the centre and the outlet of a fundamental energy — and that, from then on, this energy is expressed
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Ueshiba: an exercise aimt at building up the
"kokyu" or "concentrated power"
in many different ways, of which throwing one's opponent is, all things considered, simply one expression amongst many.
So, any true master can restore internal calm, heal the body, prevent certain illnesses, act on the body and soul as a whole and harmonize them.
In 1938, Master Ueshiba built a dojo and a Shinto temple at Iwama, 93 miles (150 Km) north of Tokyo, and began to teach aiki-do. Those who were fortunate enough to be admitted as pupils cultivated the land and served the master with total devotion.
The greatest masters of martial arts in Japan went to Iwama. Amongst them. Master Jigoro Kano, the founder of judo, who later sent Master Ueshiba a number of his pupils. To be allowed into, the dojo merely as a spectator was in itself a great privilege. Any internal distraction or any form of behaviour which was not in keeping with the spirit of the dojo was noticed immediately by the master who stopped the session and made the visitor leave.
This way of life continued until the end of the last war, when the
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Americans restricted the teaching of martial arts in all forms. Aiki-do was organized on new lines and in 1948 the Tokyo Aikikai opened. From then on, aiki-do was to spread throughout the world.
On 26 April 1969, Master Ueshiba Morihei died in Tokyo, aged 86, at the end of a long illness. The aiki-do taught by Master Ueshiba was aiki do without form, an expression of the Void. 'Aiki-do', he would say, 'is not that which is expressed in movements but what comes well before the form is born, for aiki-do is a part of the psychical world of the Void.'
from Michel Random, The Martial Arts, Peerage Books,
59 Grosvenor Street, London W1.
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From the symbol to cosmic energy
The master liked to repeat the words maru, sankaku, shikaku, meaning circles, triangles and squares; three words expressing an image and producing an energy.
The circle is none other than the cosmic universe, the square is the earth and the triangle, man. Through respiration or rather by ki, the circle, the square and the triangle, or sky, man and earth, are united.
The sounds
The esoteric understanding of aiki-do is extremely profound. Master Ueshiba devoted his life to it. One of the essential aspects of his research concerned the symbolic and the power of sounds. The five sounds of the creating are I, followed by E, A, O, U — I being the original sound corresponding to the Word of the Evangelist according to St John: 'In the beginning was the Word, the Word was God'. E A O U represent the four stages of the creation. These four stages are symbolic of the respiration rhythm of the universe. These four rhythms generate eight forces which are also the eight colours and the eight sounds. The figure eight in Japan and the East is the figure of infinity (8,64,512,4096, up to infinity).
The four stages, U O A E, develop the original energy, and create the subjective and formal world. Each letter represents an aspect of being, the sounds represent the tangible universe. Beyond, only the rhythms exist (in other words, the intangible universe, the non-being, devoid of colours and sounds).
Each stage has its own vibrations, joining the spiritual essence to the physical body. By studying, not the causality but the relationship between the stages, one can comprehend the Way (michi), that is to say, that which unites I — the intangible — to WI — the tangible.
The four stages of the creation, multiplied by the eight forces, generate the 32 states of reality.
This very summary explanation, which is therefore open to criticism, is only given as an indication to make one aware of the complex and profound understanding on which aiki-do actually rests.
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Thoughts of Master Ueshiba
Do not look at the eyes of your opponent or your spirit will be lured into his eyes. Do not look at his sword or you will be killed by his sword. Do not look at him or your mind will be distracted. True budo is the culture of the attraction by which you draw the opponent towards you, as a complete entity. All I have to do is preserve this Way.
There is no opponent or enemy in true budo. True budo is at one with the universe which means being united with the centre of the universe. True budo is a labour of love. It involves giving life to all that exists and not killing or opposing one another. Love is the guardian angel of all things. Nothing exists without it. Aiki-do is the realization of love.,
In aiki-do, we control the opponent's mind before confronting him. In other words, we draw him inside us. We progress in life with this strength of spirit and we strive to maintain a global view of the world.
We pray incessantly that the fight will not take place. For this reason, we strictly forbid aiki-do contests. Such contests still take place, however. The spirit of aiki-do is that of a loving attack and a peaceful reconciliation. With this aim in mind, we join and unite opponents with the ultimate power of love. We are able to purify others through love.
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Exceptional Energy
One key to outstanding athletic performance is the ability to call on unusual reserves of energy. Jose Torres, in his book on Muhammad Ali, says of the turning point in the second Frazier fight: "He (Ali) is using those mysterious forces. I can't explain it any other way." Having himself been a professional boxing champion, Torres would not talk about mysterious forces if other explanations were handy.
This sense of exceptional energy is not confined to individuals. John Brodie, of the San Francisco 49'ers, refers in his autobiography certain "times when an entire team will leap up a few notches. Then you feel that tremendous rush of energy across the field." Brodie does not feel there is anything unusual or mystical about this. He says, "When you have eleven men who know each other very well and have every ounce of their attention — and intention — focused on a common goal, and all their energy flowing in the same direction, this creates a very special concentration of power. Everyone feels it. The people in the stands always feel and respond to it, whether they have a name for it or not."
Several researchers, including Hans Selye, have described a pleas ant form of stress that seems to be invigorating. Some have termed it "eustress." Researcher Dorothy Harris notes that "eustress is associated with excitement, adventure, and thrilling experiences. This stress is fun, it enhances vital sensations, it 'turns on' individuals, and in the process of turning on, it releases energy." She also suggests that "eustress may be more than energy consuming, k may be energy mobilizing as well.... Most people .have far more energy resources than they are aware of, and do not realize they have the capacity to generate energy for other activities."
Western athletes frequently experience these energy bursts and are familiar with the fact that expending energy can generate higher levels
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of force. In the main, however, these surges of new energy seem to occur spontaneously. Athletes in the West are hampered by the fact that their training programs are not grounded in an underlying philosophy that would meaningfully account for and encourage the systematic development of these unusual forces. Instead they have to trust blindly that by steadfast practice and perseverance their hidden reserves will eventually be mobilized.
The Eastern martial arts, however, include specific methods for mobilizing energy and uniting mind and body. Their methods are embedded in a conception of human nature that sees the development of unusual capacities as accessible to everyone. The concept of unusual energy is basic to them. In Japan it is called ki, in China ch'i, in India prana. Like yoga, the martial arts teach methods for deliberately tap ping exceptional energy. Some writers use the word intrinsic to differentiate this inner resource from energy that is produced by muscles. Ratti and Westbrook, a husband and wife team, both black belts, who are undertaking intensive studies of various martial arts, point out that by practicing Eastern methods of concentration and mind-body unification, a type of energy is produced which, if not different from, is at least "far more encompassing and comprehensive in both substance and intensity than the common type of energy usually associated with the output of man's muscular system alone."
According to some teachings, the range of this unusual energy is infinite, and its development takes place in three stages, each encompassing more of the universe than the preceding level: The first stage which is the one most relevant to current athletics, involves individual coordination and centralization of ki. In the second stage, the influence of ki extends beyond the individual and touches others. The final stage — rarely tapped — puts the athlete in touch with the centre of life itself with a resonance that knows no bounds.
All techniques for developing ki have the same goal: the unity of mind and body. Aikido expert Koichi Tohei writes:
The things that one can do when he is sincere and when his spirit and body are one are astonishing. The cornered rat has been known to turn on the cat and down him. People often display powers in time of fire that they would never dream of in ordinary life. Women have been
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known to lift automobiles to drag children out from under them. In desperate situations of life or death people come up with unheard-of wisdom. All of these cases involve manifestations of power made possible by the unification of the spirit and the body.
Although the many methods for developing ki differ in some respects, most include five major elements: (1) relaxation and letting go, (2) concentration, (3) breathing exercises, (4) emptying the mind of thought, and (5) rhythmic activity.
Relaxation and concentration are emphasized in Western sports. However few athletes try to enhance these states by deliberate means such as meditation. Psychiatrist Thaddeus Kostrubala explains how athletic activity and meditation can both generate energy:
I liken... running itself to one of the major techniques of meditation, and sometimes prayer, employed by virtually all disciplines both East and West: the constant repetition of a particular word or series of words, whether it be, "Om, na pad na, om na," or the Hail Mary. It matters little what that particular philosophy or religion attaches to the use of the word, phrase or prayer. It is clearly intended to be an opening into another aspect of awareness. In short, by means of the repetition, the phenomenon sought — namely, the touching of another state of consciousness — is achieved. I think the same process occurs in the repetitive rhythm of slow long-distance running. Eventually, at somewhere between thirty and forty minutes, the conscious mind gets exhausted and other areas of conscious ness are activated.
If this is the case, then even though most Western athletes have made little use of meditation, nevertheless they may have been achieving comparable results through the use of rhythmic activity engaged in faithfully over a long period of time.
Breathing plays an essential role in many Eastern disciplines. Westbrook and Ratti say, "One frequently mentioned method of developing this Inner Energy is by the regular practice of deep or abdominal
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breathing, since ki is held to be closely connected with breathing and has indeed even been called the 'breath of life' ". W. Scott Russell notes that "when faced with stress, the karateist automatically begins his patterned breathing. And when he begins that breathing, he automatically feels calm and in control. But that's not all that happens. The karateist's controlled breathing not only keeps him calm and com posed, but also gives him a tremendous surge of energy."
Although in the West it is rare to find breathing exercises systematically practiced, many athletes use something similar at moments of stress. Basketball's Bob Pettit wrote that he relaxed "before shooting a free throw by taking a deep breath, then slowly let the air out of my lungs." Racing car driver Mario Andretti says, "Jackie Stewart told me he used to practice deep breathing at certain spots around the circuit."
Another method used to develop ki is the achievement of a detached state of mind. Karate expert Masutatsu Oyama advises one to "forget yourself, forget your enemies, forget winning and losing, and when you have done so, you will be in the spiritually unified state that is called mu, or nothingness, in Zen. When you have spiritually reached the state of impassivity you will have entered a comer of the Zen world of mu." Many athletes have discovered that they perform best in a state of detachment. Tom Nieporte and Don Sauers, in a survey of professional golfers' ideas concerning the mental side of golf, conclude, "It is generally accepted among the pros that there are times when exceptionally gifted players at the top of their games can play tournament golf with 'blank minds.' Their swings and tempos are so well grooved, and their concentration is so deep, that they do everything automatically."...
Western athletes, then, like practitioners of the martial arts, often depend on relaxation, concentration, breathing exercises, mental emptying, and rhythm to achieve exceptional performances. Even though they don't have a training system as sophisticated in this regard as yoga or the martial arts, they manage nevertheless to incorporate these elements into their practice and performance. Through intrinsic energy or in concert with it athletes often discover extraordinary capacities for strength, speed, balance, and ease.
In addition, they sometimes demonstrate abilities that are generally assumed to be "impossible." There are accounts of abilities to leap over rocky terrain without looking; to climb smooth walls without artificial aids; to be unharmed by hard, well-aimed blows, delivered not only by
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hand but with swords or other hand weapons; to elude bullets and pass through walls; to rise and hang in the air; and even to disappear. We have no absolute proof that these possibilities are facts. At this stage all we can say is that sport gives use to legends of this kind. Even if such capacities do not exist, it is certainly interesting and possibly significant that wonder tales of the sort commonly associated with saints and yogis are now being connected with sporting feats....
There are many cases in the martial arts literature which suggest that Eastern athletes can deliberately tap extraordinary amounts of energy and strength. Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of aikido, is said to have relocated a large stone that ten labourers had been unable to move. He often performed such feats, and once said, "I taught myself that an extraordinary spiritual power or soul power lies within a human body."
Extraordinary Strength
Among the most astounding feats of strength practiced in the martial arts are those performed by karateka, those who practice karate. Don Buck, karate sensei, is known for his eerie power in winning arm wrestling contests. "On at least one occasion he won such a contest, using only his little finger," Glen Barclay writes. "His explanation is that using one finger put him at an advantage, because he was able to 'focus the same amount of strength into a smaller area.' "
John Gilbey travelled all over the world in the 1960s observing extraordinary feats of strength and prowess. In Taiwan, he
saw gifted boxers of every description. Men who could slice bricks like your wife would a cake; men who could lightly touch your body and bring a bright red blood line immediately to the surface; men who could catch flies (alive!) with their chopsticks; men who could plunge their arms up to the elbow in unprepared, rather hard soil.
He also observed a man who struck a steel stanchion a glancing blow. Gilbey says:
I looked at the huge steel stanchion. And what I saw made my eyes pop. The impress of the blond chap's fist was clearly and unmistakably engraved in the steel to a depth
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of a full quarter inch! The stanchion was not of deficient steel. Fool that I am, I tested it (my hand is still numb) and no posterity will see my work because it isn't there.
A recent book on kung fu by David Chow and Richard Spangler includes several photographs of outstanding feats which they observed. One shows an 82-year old Chinese Ch'i Kung master who drove an eight-inch nail through four inches of board with his bare forehead.
Most -of us have a strong impulse to reject such tales as legends or mere fantasies, indulged in by peoples who are less gifted than Westerners at separating subjective from objective realities. However, there are so many stories like these that it is difficult to believe that none of them is true. Moreover, many of these unusual feats have been witnessed and attested to by knowledgeable observers. Since we are primarily interested in describing the extreme limits of performance in athletic endeavour, we must include some of these astounding stories. As more people become aware of these feats and the methods behind them, we will be able to prove, for ourselves and for each other, which are true and which false.
Extraordinary Speed and Endurance
A rare and dramatic example of extraordinary speed and endurance are the lung-gom-pa runners in Tibet. In her book Magic and Mystery in Tibet, Alexandra David-Neel says that they undergo a special kind of training that develops "uncommon nimbleness and especially enables its adepts to take extraordinarily long tramps with amazing rapidity." She adds that although many undertake the lung-gom training, few become really good at it. But one day she encountered such an adept. Her companion urged her not to interrupt him, as he was running in a trance and to awaken him suddenly might cause death. When the man drew close, "I could clearly see his perfectly calm impassive face and wide-open eyes with their gaze fixed on some invisible far distant object situated somewhere high up in space. The man did not run. He seemed to lift himself from the ground, proceeding by leaps. It looked as if he had been endowed with the elasticity of a ball and rebounded each time his feet touched the ground. His steps had the regularity of a pendulum."
The major emphasis of these lung-gom-pa runners is not on speed, but endurance. The same pace is maintained over all kinds of terrain
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for several consecutive days and nights. According to some reports, thousands of miles are covered in this manner by the lung-gom adepts. David-Neel takes pains to point out that the feats accomplished are more a matter of mind than of muscle. She says, "It must be under stood that the lung-gom method does not aim at training the disciple by strengthening his muscles, but by developing in him psychic states that make these extraordinary marches possible."
Some initiates in the secret lore also assert that, as a result of long years of practice, after he has travelled over a certain distance, the feet of the lung-gom-pa no longer touch the ground and that he glides on the air with an extreme celerity.
Setting aside exaggeration, I am convinced from my limited experiences and what I have heard from trustworthy lamas, that one reaches a condition in which one does not feel the weight of one's body. A kind of anaesthesia deadens the sensations that would be produced by knocking against the stones or other obstacles on the way, and one walks for hours at an unaccustomed speed, enjoying that kind of light agreeable dizziness well known to motorists at high speed.
Lama Anagarika Govinda, a European by birth, experienced some thing similar to the trance of the lung-gom-pa runners when he was travelling in Tibet. He had spent a day far from camp painting and exploring, and did not turn toward home until dark. He had to cover many miles of boulder-covered ground in the dark of night. In spite of these obstacles, he found that
... To my amazement I jumped from boulder to boulder without ever slipping or missing a foothold, in spite of wearing only a pair of flimsy sandals on my bare feet. One false step or a single slip on these boulders would have sufficed to break or to sprain a foot, but I never missed a step. I moved on with the certainty of a sleep walker — though far from being asleep. I do not know how many miles of this boulder-strewn territory I traversed; I only know that finally I found myself on the pass over the low hills with the plain and the magnesium swamp before me.... Still under the influence of the "spell" I went right across the swamp without ever breaking through.
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Only later was Govinda able to find an explanation for his experience, after reading the account we quoted from David-Neel. Govinda says that unwittingly he had followed the lung-gom rules, adding, "I clearly reached a condition in which the weight of the body is no more felt and in which the feet seem to be endowed with an instinct of their own, avoiding invisible obstacles and finding footholds, which only a clairvoyant consciousness could have detected in the speed of such a movement and in the darkness of the night."
Lama-Govinda visited a lung-gom training centre where lung-gom pas in training entered meditation cubicles, which contained the necessities of life. Once they entered, the doorway was sealed. The briefest period a monk remained in a cubicle was one to three months, the longest nine years. While the lung-gom-pa was sealed up, no one was allowed to see or speak to him. Alms, often in the form of food, were received by the lung-gom-pas through a 9 by 10 inch opening:
The same small opening... is said to be used as an exit by the lung-gom-pa after completion of his nine years' practice in uninterrupted seclusion and perfect silence. It is said that his body by that time has become so light and subtle that he can get through an opening not wider than a normal man's span, and that he can move with the speed of a galloping horse, while hardly touching the ground.
This improvement in running ability was said to occur in the absence of any physical practice, with the exception of minimal exercise in the form of walking on a terrace (in seclusion) provided for that purpose. If these reports are true, then a whole new dimension of physical capacity was tapped in the lung-gom training, through purely mental means.
Mountain climber Gaston Rebuffat has described an experience that resembled the lung-gom running. In steep terrain he was threatened by an impending storm :
Horrified at the thought of a storm in this fissure, where the sheet of water would so soon be transformed into a torrent, I climbed fast, very fast, rather roughly. Behind me the ropes were heavy with moisture. Above, the cleft was barred by vertical walls forming a difficult obstacle,
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demanding care and attention. Meanwhile the rock grew greasy under its film of water. It began to rain, but we seemed to be making our way through a curtain of vapour, frigid, almost tangible and hard to penetrate. There was nothing ethereal about these regions, and yet I felt myself as light as if I had abandoned my human frame; I almost ran up the rocks.
Most of us would probably say that what Rebuffat did on that climb did not involve any unusual powers. His actions could be explained by extra adrenalin produced by his fear of being caught in the fissure. Then his climbing faculties were so aroused that timing, muscles, and judgment were functioning at a high level. But Rebuffat himself seems to think that what he did that day was exceptional. How often does a climber feel that he has abandoned "his human frame"? Could it be that there is a level of functioning beyond the best of "ordinary" climbing ability — a higher gear, as it were — and did Rebuffat somehow get into that gear on that special day?
Extraordinary Balance
Martial arts student John Gilbey once witnessed an extraordinary feat. An adept named Chou called to him from an open window on the third floor of a building, telling Gilbey he would leap down beside him. Gilbey says:
The next moment his small body was in flight. The next is incredible. Of course he landed on the wooden surface without injury, but this I had seen Japanese and Thai non boxers do previously. But Chou landed not only without injury but also without sound! I swear it — I saw it but I did not hear it. A physicist may be able to explain it. I own that I cannot.
One of the presently inexplicable abilities reportedly practiced in the martial arts is that of being able to walk up perpendicular walls. This form of kung fu is sometimes called the. "lizard technique." It
... enables a student to scale a wall with nothing more than
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his hands and feet. Training starts with a pole inclined against a wall for assistance. Gradually, the angle of the pole against the wall is reduced until the student can scale the wall without the pole. In another version of this technique, the student stands with his back against the wall and using only his heels and hands mounts the wall.
It is also called wall climbing kung, or "gecko crawling," the gecko being a small lizard. Here is another account of this remarkable feat:
... Anyone well versed in this art can, with his back against a wall, move freely on and along the surface, horizontally and vertically, by using the controlled strength of his heels and elbows. While perfection of this Kung is indeed similar to a Gecko darting as a matter of routine up virtually any wall, it certainly is not easy for humans to master pre carious wall climbing, which often threatens to create great insecurity or instability. Generously estimating, one out of a hundred students might consummate this Kung.
Extraordinary Ease
A culminating experience in sport is the state of effortlessness that athletes achieve at special moments. Feats that are usually demanding and taxing — even exhausting — are accomplished with ease. This seeming effortlessness is a feature often noted by spectators. Grantland Rice described Red Grange's running ability on the football field as follows: "He runs... with almost no effort, as a shadow flits and drifts and darts. There is no gathering of muscle for an extra lunge. There is only the effortless, ghostlike, weave and glide upon effortless legs..."
But the case for effortlessness in peak sports performance need not rest on second-hand observations, which are often made with the proviso "He makes it look easy," implying that although it may look simple enough, for example, to hit a golf ball 350 yards, it's not really easy to do it. But firsthand accounts from many athletes suggest that at certain moments it actually is as easy to perform as it looks....
Although one might assume that to a great extent sensations of effortlessness and ease are the result of training and practice, the answer seems to be more complex. Mountain climber Lionel Terray
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writes of his experience after weeks of climbing:
By this time we were so fit and acclimatized, both mentally and physically, to living in high mountains, that we had virtually overcome the normal human inadaptation to such surroundings. Our ease and rapidity of movement had become in a sense unnatural, and we had practically' evolved into a new kind of alpine animal, half way between the monkey and the mountain goat. We could run uphill for hours, climb faces as though they were step-ladders, and rush down gullies in apparent defiance of the laws of gravity. The majority of climbs seemed child's play, which we could do without any particular effort in half or a third of the time taken by an ordinary good party.
By themselves, these accounts of extraordinary strength, speed, balance, and ease are too few to merit acceptance as fact. However, they are internally consistent enough to suggest that similar abilities are being described. If such abilities do exist, we would be foolish to reject them just because they fly in the face of what we have been conditioned to expect. If the experiences in this book demonstrate anything, it is that we must not set limits on what is possible.
Energy Reaching Out: Psychokinesis
In the 1970s a number of psychics have come to public attention with claims that they can perform feats of psychokinesis (PK), that is, the power to affect objects directly by purely mental means. One of the best-known psychics with PK abilities today is Uri Geller, noted for his supposed spoon-bending and watch-stopping abilities. Unfortunately Geller's abilities have not been adequately observed under strict laboratory conditions, although some reports of research with him have been published. Whether or not Geller's ability is genuine does not alter the fact that the existence of psychokinesis has been scientifically verified in many laboratories to the satisfaction of many reliable witnesses. Theoretically, PK ability can provide that extra edge which might explain some otherwise inexplicable athletic feats. But is there any evidence that PK occurs in sport?
Most of PK laboratory experiments involve influencing the throw of
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dice. Subjects "will" specific die faces to turn up, or to fall to the left or the right. Willing is often mentioned by athletes. They often make many statements to suggest that at times they can actually "will" things to happen. There are many golf stories about changing the flight of the ball through the power of mind. Don Lauck notes that for years golf galleries had believed that Jack Nicklaus, "could win whenever he wanted, could will the ball into the cup if he needed a birdie at the' 18th." Nicklaus' own words about Arnold Palmer show that he too prizes the power of willing. He insists that although Palmer possessed a fine putting touch when at his peak, it wasn't this skill that enabled him to sink so many pressure putts. "More than anything else you get the feeling that he actually willed the ball into the hole."
... John P. Brown, in his book on dervishes, tells of a sufi who, while watching a wrestling match, agreed with his companion that together they would try to aid one of the contestants by means of willpower. They also agreed that, having helped the first wrestler subdue his opponent, they would then concentrate on aiding the other man to overcome the first wrestler in turn. They succeeded both times. Brown also tells of two persons at another match who decided to help the weaker of the two wrestlers. "Immediately a wonderful occurrence took place; the thin, spare man seized upon his giant-like opponent, and threw him upon the ground with surprising force. The crowd cried out with astonishment, as he turned him over on his back, and held him down with much apparent ease. No one present, except ourselves, knew the cause."
Psychokinesis in the Martial Arts
The growing literature on the martial arts is packed with stories that. are unbelievable, yet an increasing number of observers testify to the truth of at least some of them.
In some feats performed by martial artists, physical contact is made with a person or object, but the influence exerted seems greater than the degree of contact made. It appears that the "real" work is done by a force much more powerful than any that the muscles alone provide. We will mention instances in which this is only a slight possibility, then work up to cases where an unknown force is the only likely explanation.
In the Tameshiwari, or breaking aspect of karate, "trained karateka can smash boards, bricks, cement blocks, ice, and roofing tiles with
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various parts of their body including the fists, open hands, and even their heads and fingers." In some of these breaking techniques, the effect seems to go beyond the immediate physical contact made between mere flesh and rocks, tiles or glass. Chow and Spangler observed and photographed a master who said he would strike five bricks piled on top of each other, splitting each in two except for the second from the top. He did as he promised.
The populizer of kung fu, Bruce Lee, demonstrated in public, before photographers, his capacity to deliver a punch of tremendous impact, standing right foot forward, with his almost fully-extended right arm an inch away from his partner, who held a heavily-padded glove against his chest for protection. In this position, from which it is physically impossible to generate enough power to hurt an opponent, Lee knocked his partner flying into a waiting chair, several feet behind him.
A variant of Lee's technique is the "delayed death touch."
This refers to the ability, reported though difficult to prove, to strike a person in a vital spot and for the effect to be delayed, by hours, days or even months. In carrying this out, the "attacker" strikes the "victim" in a certain spot, at a certain time, in a certain way. Instead of dropping on the spot the victim goes on his way. Through some unknown process his vital energy is affected and at a certain point in his inner cycle the effect of the "touch" is felt and he dies or is seriously ill.
There are, in fact, eyewitness accounts "of men struck in the abdomen, by blows that barely marked the skin, who died later of ruptured spleens or kidneys, destroyed by the shock wave of energy dispatched by fist or foot."
This "death touch" can be explained by suggestion, if in fact complicity is not involved. American psychologist Martin Seligman has studied voodoo deaths among Caribbean people And concluded that the victim's faith is the cause of death. Aware of a hex and sure of its power, the victim falls into a kind of learned helplessness and slides into submissive death.
But what about cases in which the victim is unaware of his intended fate? Then, if it is suggestion, it must operate by telepathy, a possibility
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that's not as far-fetched as it sounds at first. According to certain reports, it is hinted that Russian researchers are working on techniques to influence people at a distance by telepathy. Some writers suggest that the delayed death touch is an application of the principles of acupuncture. One writer says, "It stands to reason that a powerful medicine (or medical technique) can just as easily kill or cripple [as cure]."
Another technique is the apparently simple but powerful matter of expelling the breath. This has such a tenuous physical basis that it can hardly account for the results it is claimed to produce. A famous Chinese boxer, Yang Lu-ch'an, is said to have "knocked a young challenger 30 feet across a room simply by expelling his breath with a laugh when the young man let fly a punch at the famous boxer's stomach."
Finally, two techniques in the martial arts seem to make sense only in terms of some kind of PK. One is the "spirit shout art," or "kiai shout." E.J. Harrison tells of a master who saw "a few sparrows perched on the branch of a tall pine tree, and fixing his steadfast gaze on the birds, gave utterance to the kiai shout, whereupon the birds fell to the ground insensible. When he relaxed the kiai the birds regained consciousness and flew away." Harrison says the shout was also employed for the opposite effect — that of restoring to conscious ness persons that doctors had given up for dead.
Martial artist Robert Smith tells many anecdotes about the renowned Chinese boxer, Li Neng-jan. One concerns a young man who — on the pretext of offering tea to Li — planned to attack him, as in spite of his reputation he appeared to be a harmless old man. When he did so, says Smith, "Li merely used a spirit-shout... that knocked the (young man) out — without spilling his tea or interrupting his conversation with another man. When asked about it, (the young man) replied with: 'I heard thunder, his hands had eyes, I fell unconscious.' "
A last technique, inexplicable in ordinary physical terms, is noi cun, which Michael Minick describes as follows:
More commonly known as the divine technique, this is a very rare form of kung fu practiced by only a handful of adepts. It is not widely taught or particularly popular because it takes the better part of a lifetime to master. And, quite frankly, it strains the credulity of those who are asked to believe that it exists. Simply put, it is a means of
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generating internal power so enormous one can fell an opponent without actually touching him. As fantastic as this sounds, most kung fu masters insist that such an art exists, and many claim to have witnessed it. One modem master writing in Karate Illustrated stated: Here in San Francisco lives a one-hundred-seven-year-old master who is still able to use noi cun (the use of internal power) despite his age and the frailty of his body. I personally have seen him demonstrate. In one of his demonstrations, he asked a young man to step to the centre of the room. Then, placing himself a few yards away, he stretched forth his arm, palm pointed outward, and concentrated deeply, drawing from within that great force of his chi, and within a few moments the lad was staggering backward, pushed off balance by the unseen force radiating from that outstretched hand...
Uncanny Suspension
At certain moments, athletes have feelings of floating and weightless ness. Sometimes, in fact, they even have out-of-body experiences. Now we would like to consider the possibility that the athlete is literally able to suspend himself in midair. Is there an objective reality involved, something that can be verified by others? We think that there is. We have collected many statements by sportswriters, coaches, and other observers that attest to the fact that some athletes actually can, for brief moments, remain suspended in the air. Basketball players and dancers, especially, seem to demonstrate this amazing ability.
Referring to the ability of the Denver Nuggets' David Thompson to remain suspended in air, Marshall Frady used the term, "the uncanny suspension." Witnessing an instance of this deeply affected author James Michener. He describes a 1941 basketball game and player Hank Luisetti in his Sports in America:
Somehow, Luisetti stayed up in the air, faked a shot at the basket, made the Denver centre commit himself, and with a movement I had never seen before, simply extended his right arm an extra foot and banked a one-handed shot gently against the blackboard and into the basket. It seemed as
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if he had been in the air a full minute, deceiving three different players, and ending with a delayed shot that was staggering in its beauty.
An article in Time describes a performance by premier danseur Mikhail Baryshnikov:
... when he launches his perfectly arched body into the arc of-one of his improbably sustained leaps — high, light, the leg beats blurring precision — he transcends the limits of physique and, it sometimes seems, those of gravity itself. If one goes by the gasps in the theatre or the ecstasies of the critics, such moments turn Mikhail Baryshnikov, if not into a minor god, then into a major sorcerer....
He is an unbelievable technician with invisible technique. Most dancers, even the great ones, make obvious preliminaries to leaps. He simply floats into confounding feats of acrobatics and then comes to still, collected repose. He forces the eye into a double take: did that man actually do that just now? Dance Critic Walter Terry says that "Baryshnikov is probably the most dazzling virtuoso we have seen. He is more spectacular in sheer technique than any other male dancer. What he actually does, no one can really define. His steps are in no ballet dictionary. And he seems to be able to stop in mid-air and sit in space."
If these athletes and danseurs really can remain in the air longer than is normally possible, how do they do it? Again, a possible answer may be found in the literature of the world's religions, all of which mention levitation, or the ability to rise and remain in the air. Some suggest that levitation is a symbol of spiritual emancipation. Ernest Wood observes, "Levitation is a universally accepted fact in India. I remember one occasion when an old yogi was levitated in a recumbent posture about six feet above the ground in an open field, for about half an hour, while the visitors were permitted to pass sticks to and fro in the space between." ...
If, for purposes of discussion, we assume that levitation does occur, it is possible that the seemingly inexplicable ability of a Julius Erving
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or a Mikhail Baryshnikov may be rudimentary and spontaneous occurrences of it, not entirely due to muscular exertion. The athlete's extreme effort to remain airborne may be necessary for the occurrence of a non-physical factor.
Have we any clues as to how this amazing ability is induced? Danseur Vaslav Nijinsky, when asked if it was difficult to remain suspended in the air, "did not understand at first; and then very obligingly [replied]: 'No! No! not difficult. You have to just go up and then pause a little up there.' " Nandor Fodor, a psychoanalyst and psychical researcher, asks whether Nijinsky's ability is a rudimentary form of levitation or only an illusion. He concludes it is indeed levitation, and suggests that Nijinsky — perhaps unconsciously — used a special technique that incorporated aspects of yoga. He was able to see himself from outside during a performance, and this suggested to Fodor that he was in a form of trance during peak performances. Also, his technique apparently involved both breathing and muscular control. Folder, who knew Nijinsky replied, "I often asked him how he managed to stay up in the air. He never could understand why we could not do it. He just took a leap, held his breath, and stayed up. He felt supported in the air. Moreover, he could control his descent, and could come down slower or quicker as he wished. I know he had extraordinary thigh muscles, and I know that in the matter of filling his lungs with air he has, in a friendly contest, easily beaten Caruso and Erich Schmedes."
Fodor learned that it was standard technique in ballet to breath in before a leap, to hold the breath while in the air, and to breath out after landing. With this technique dancers would unconsciously acquire a control over their breathing similar to that practiced by yogis to achieve buoyancy.
Unlike saints, yogis, and shamans, athletes are not aiming at spiritual emancipation. Unlike physical mediums, they are not trying to levitate just for the sake of levitation. But the discipline and training of sport and dance, plus situations calling for rising in the air — as in basketball, ballet, or the broad jump — combined with conscious or unconscious breathing exercises, may trigger a rudimentary form of levitation.
The Invisible Barrier
John Gilbey once saw a martial arts master take a sword and slice through a piece of wood six inches thick, four inches wide, and a foot
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and a half long. This was to demonstrate the sharpness of the sword. Next he said that "by concentration I will isolate various components of my body so that a sharp sword will not penetrate the skin." He then had an assistant place the sword against his biceps and put all his weight on it. No skin was broken. "There was only a slight red line caused by the pressure of the blade." Finally, he asked Gilbey himself "to strike with all my strength at his left forearm. He enjoined me to focus well since, if I hit his upper arm inadvertently, it would be unfortunate. I took the sword from the assistant, focused on Hirose's arm, and brought the sword down sharply.... In an unbelieving trance I held his arm and gazed at it. A red line creased the skin, but that was all."
This form of mind over matter may also be operative in sport — a state of invulnerability in which the athlete cannot be harmed. Some times it seems as if an invisible physical curtain or wall is protecting him, preventing the athlete from being touched by anyone or anything harmful. In fact, the barrier appears to be mental, and if the religious tests are to be relied on, its presence is due to the athlete's having achieved the right attitude toward his opponent and, indeed, toward life itself.
Photographs in the book by Chow and Spangler illustrate the form of Ch'i Kung that John Gilbey witnessed. In one case Grand Master Lung Chi Cheung allowed the wheel of an automobile to run over his stomach, yet he was not hurt. In another instance, five bricks were placed on the head of Northern Shaolin Master Lung Kai Ming; his brother then broke the bricks with a blow from a sledge hammer, but Lung was not hurt.
Although Western athletes do not actively cultivate invulnerability, there are scattered accounts of individuals who seem to be unusually free from injury. This is usually attributed to exceptional speed and reflexes that enable one to avoid harm — or simply to good fortune. It may be, however, that abilities like the ones just reviewed could occur spontaneously, as a natural outgrowth of the attitude and discipline of the athlete.
Dr. Ferdie Pacheco, Muhammad Ali's fight doctor, says Ali "has a God-given great body.... take his ability to take body shots. Why do his ribs not break when he allows someone like George Foreman to pound him? I don't know why, but they don't.... And take his facial tissue. He's hardly ever marked."
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Another variation on the theme of invulnerability involves a kind of hypnotic ability some athletes can exercise. Ratti and Westbrook point out that ki can be channelled by means of a magnetic personality which enables one to
... call upon strong powers of projection and suggestion, and these can often be used to prevent combat, or to win it. There is an episode... said to have involved a samurai who was set upon in the woods by a pack of wolves.... He merely kept walking straight ahead, his countenance so stable, aware, and potentially explosive that the animals were frozen in their tracks, while he passed safely through their midst. Other episodes mention men lying in ambush only to confront a victim who, simply by gazing at them, terrorized them so effectively that they were immobilized.
Mind Over Matter
Does mind directly influence matter in sports situations? Only those whose minds are completely closed would definitely rule it out. If we assume only the possibility that psychokinesis (PK) occurs in sport, then do we have any clues as to how it can operate?
Sport constantly shows us how the mind imposes barriers on what the body can do. This mental barrier, this tendency to set a limit on what humans can or cannot do, is what needs to be overcome. Time and again it has been shown that once one athlete breaks through a barrier, other athletes will soon follow, thus showing that the barrier, all along, was not physical but mental. French mountaineer Rene Dittert observes, "It is a strange fact, but one that has always proved true, that where one man has imposed his domination over the elements another man can pass. The way is open, because the forces of nature have waited for man to prove himself master before submitting." Arnold Beisser notes, after discussing barriers to breaking records in sport, "The final striking impression is that when a record is finally broken by one man it opens the way for others to do the same." In this connection sportswriter and runner Kenny Moore makes an interesting point in his article on Henry Rono, Washington State track star. He says that in Rono's native Kenya, the living conditions demand a "realism, a clarity of judgment about such things as pain and effort, that is difficult for Westerners to share."
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Moore considers that this cultural factor has important implications as far as Rono's capacity to break records is concerned: "Rona has no illusions, which is good, because the case has been made that it is our illusion that we can go no faster that holds us back."
Perhaps the biggest barrier of all is the belief that although we can move our bodies directly, we cannot move anything beyond their reach. But what if we are viewing the problem through the wrong end of a telescope? Thirty years ago a psychologist, R.H. Thouless, and a mathematician,' B.P. Wiesner, put forth an hypothesis that, if true, would pro vide an explanation for some of the unusual feats described here; "I control the activity of my nervous system (and so indirectly control such activities as the movements of my body and the course of my thinking) by the same means as that by which the successful psychokinetic subject controls the fall of the dice or other object."
That this notion is not outdated is underlined by the fact that the world-famous physiologist Sir John Eccles recently suggested much the same idea. In an invited address at the 1976 convention of the Parapsychological Association, he proposes that the simple act of saying a word was actually a form of psychokinesis: "The mind has been able to work upon the brain cells, just slightly changing them.... The mind is making these very slight and subtle changes for hundreds of millions of cells, gradually bringing it through and channeling it into the correct tar get cells to make the movement. And so there is psychokinesis, mind acting upon a material object, namely brain cells. It's extremely weak, but it's effective, because we've learned to use it." We are suggesting that athletes are learning in a similar way — haphazardly, if not by design — to extent the reach of the body beyond the confines of the flesh.
What if it is really the mind that is accomplishing these physical feats? What if an athlete can control his muscles the same way that a PK subject in the laboratory can control the throw of a die? If this hypothesis is correct, it removes a mental barrier for if it is the mind that is the prime mover, then the muscles are just as much "outside" the mind as is a die face or the table lamp that Johnny Miller feels we will one day be able to move by mind alone. Or put the other way, the die face or lamp are no more outside the reach of the mind than one's muscles. The literature suggests that a few individuals who are able to per form mind-boggling feats view reality in just this way. Baseball enthusiast Richard Grossinger observes:
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Pitchers have torn muscles, broken bones, been operated on, had ligaments grafted; they have altered everything about their delivery and rhythm that made them a pitcher in the first place. They have come back from rotary cuff surgery, from not being able to lift their arms for a year and a half, and they have won ball-games. Occasionally, like Jim Palmer and Luis Tiant, they have pitched the best baseball of their lives after the actual physical equipment was seemingly taken away. It is almost as though the outer throwing form is an illusion. If you learn how to do it in terms of a strong healthy body, the skill remains, the ability to put it over, long after the body ceases to back it. An inner image of the entire pitching sequence is regenerative, like a reptile limb.
The abilities reviewed above suggest that some of us are demonstrating, in sport, that we can extend our boundaries beyond the con fines of our bodies. It appears that the body is not so much the end of sport as the beginning. It is a centering point, a place to start from, but from this sturdy base we are capable of reaching beyond — of fleshing out the spirit in areas where the body cannot reach, initiating movements the eye cannot see , revealing strengths that transcend mere muscles, and exerting energies that can no longer be considered physical in the ordinary sense. In similar fashion, sport may not only be an end in itself, but the beginning of a human unfoldment that will eventually extend the boundaries in all areas of life.
from Michael Murphy and Rhea A. White,
The Psychic Side of Sports,
Addison-Wesley Publishing Cy, U.S.A.
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Part IX
Veronique
The perfection of the body, as great a perfection as we can bring about by the means at our disposal, must be the ultimate aim of physical culture. Perfection is the true aim of all culture, the spiritual and psychic, the mental, the vital and it must be the aim of our physical culture also. If our seeking is for a total perfection of the being, the physical part of it cannot be left aside; for the body is the material basis, the body is the instrument which we have to use. Sariram khalu dharmasadhanam, says the old Sanskrit adage, — the body is the means of fulfilment of dharma, and dharma means every ideal which we can propose to ourselves and the law of its working out and its action. A total perfection is the ultimate aim which we set before us, for our ideal is the Divine Life which we wish to create here, the life of the Spirit fulfilled on earth, life accomplishing its own spiritual transformation even here on earth in the conditions of the material universe. That cannot be unless the body too undergoes a transformation, unless its action and functioning attain to a supreme capacity and the perfection which is possible to it or which can be made possible.
(...) A development of the physical consciousness must always be a considerable part of our aim, but for that the right development of the body itself is an essential element; health, strength, fitness are the first needs, but the physical frame itself must be the best possible. A divine life in a material world implies necessarily a union of the two ends of existence, the spiritual summit and the material base. The soul with the basis of its life established in Matter ascends to the heights of the Spirit but does not cast away its base, it joins the heights and the depths together. The Spirit descends into Matter and the material world with all its lights and glories and powers and with them fills and transforms life in the material world so that it becomes more and more divine. The transformation is not a change into something purely subtle and spiritual to which Matter is in its nature repugnant and by which it is felt as
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an obstacle or as a shackle binding the Spirit; it takes up Matter as a form of the Spirit though now a form which conceals and turns it into a revealing instrument, it does not cast away the energies of Matter, its capacities, its methods; it brings out their hidden possibilities, uplifts, sublimates, discloses their innate divinity. The divine life will reject nothing that is capable of divinisation; all is to be seized, exalted, made utterly perfect. The mind now still ignorant, though struggling towards knowledge, has to rise towards and into the supramental light and truth and bring it down so that it shall suffuse our thinking and perception and insight and all our means of knowing till they become radiant with the highest truth in their inmost and outermost movements. Our life, still full of obscurity and confusion and occupied with so many dull and lower aims, must feel all its urges and instincts exalted and irradiated and become a glorious counterpart of the supramental super-life above. The physical consciousness and physical being, the body itself must reach a perfection in all that it is and does which now we can hardly conceive. It may even in the end be suffused with a light and beauty and bliss from the Beyond and the life divine assume a body divine.
But first the evolution of the nature must have reached a point at which it can meet the Spirit direct, feel the aspiration towards the spiritual change and open itself to the workings of the Power which shall transform it. A supreme perfection is possible only by a transformation of our lower or human nature, a transformation of the mind into a thing of light, our life into a thing of power, an instrument of right action, right use for all its forces, of a happy elevation of its being lifting it beyond its present comparatively narrow potentiality for a self-fulfilling force of action and joy of life. There must be equally a transforming change of the body by a conversion of its action, its functioning, its capacities as an instrument beyond the limitations by which it is clogged and hampered even in its greatest present human attainment. In the totality of the change we have to achieve, human means and forces too have to be taken up, not dropped but used and magnified to their utmost possibility as part of the new life. Such a sublimation of our present human powers of mind and life into elements of a divine life on earth can be conceived without much difficulty; but in what figure shall we conceive the perfection of the body?
In the past the body has been regarded by spiritual seekers rather as
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an obstacle, as something to be overcome and discarded than as an instrument of spiritual perfection and a field of the spiritual change. It has been condemned as a grossness of Matter, as an insuperable impediment and the limitations of the body as something unchangeable making transformation impossible. This is because the human body even at its best seems only to be driven by an energy of life which has its own limits and is debased in its smaller physical activities by much that is petty or coarse or evil, the body in itself is burdened with the inertia and inconscience of Matter, only partly awake and, although quickened and animated by a nervous activity, subconscient in the fundamental action of its constituent cells and tissues and their secret workings. Even in its fullest strength and force and greatest glory of beauty, it is still a flower of the material Inconscience; the inconscient is the soil from which it has grown and at every point opposes a narrow boundary to the extension of its powers and to any effort of radical self-exceeding. But if a divine life is possible on earth, then this self-exceeding must also be possible.
In the pursuit of perfection we can start at either end of our range of being and we have then to use, initially at least, the means and processes proper to our choice. In Yoga the process is spiritual and psychic; even its vital and physical processes are given a spiritual or psychic turn and raised to a higher motion than belongs properly to the ordinary life and Matter, as for instance in the Hathayogic and Rajayogic use of the breathing or the use of Asana. Ordinarily a previous preparation of the mind and life and body is necessary to make them fit for the reception of the spiritual energy and the organization of psychic forces and methods, but this too is given a special turn proper to the Yoga. On the other hand, if we start in any field at the lower end we have to employ the means and processes which Life and Matter offer to us and respect the conditions and what we may call the technique imposed by the vital and the material energy. We may extend the activity, the achievement, the perfection attained beyond the initial, even beyond the normal possibilities but still we have to stand on the same base with which we started and within the boundaries it gives to us. It is not that the action from the two ends cannot meet and the higher take into itself and uplift the lower perfection; but this can usually be done only by a transition from the lower to a higher outlook, aspiration and motive: this we shall have to do if our aim is to transform the human into the divine life. But
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here there comes in the necessity of taking up the activities of human life and sublimating them by the power of the spirit. Here the lower perfection will not disappear; it will remain but will be enlarged and transformed by the higher perfection which only the power of the spirit can give. This will be evident if we consider poetry and art, philosophic thought, the perfection of the written word or the perfect organisation of earthly life: these have to be taken up and the possibilities ' already achieved or whatever perfection has already been attained included-in a new and greater perfection but with the larger vision and inspiration of a spiritual consciousness and with new forms and powers. It must be the same with the perfection of the body.
The taking up of life and Matter into what is essentially a spiritual seeking, instead of the rejection and ultimate exclusion of them which was the attitude of a spirituality that shunned or turned away from life in the world, involves certain developments which a spiritual institution of the older kind could regard as foreign to its purpose. A divine life in the world or an institution having that for its aim and purpose cannot be or cannot remain something outside or entirely shut away from the life of ordinary men in the world or unconcerned with the mundane existence; it has to do the work of the Divine in the world and not a work outside or separate from it. The life of the ancient Rishis in their Ashramas had such a connection; they were creators, educators, guides of men and the life of the Indian people in ancient times was largely developed and directed by their shaping influence. The life and activities involved in the new endeavour are not identical but they too must be an action upon the world and a new creation in it. It must have contacts and connections with it and activities which take their place in the general life and whose initial or primary objects may not seem to differ from those of the same activities in the outside world. ...
(...)The object must be the training of the body and the development of certain parts of mind and character so far as this can be done by or in connection with this training .... It is a relative and human perfection that can be attained within these limits; anything greater can be reached only by the intervention of higher powers, psychic powers, the power of the spirit. Yet what can be attained within the human boundaries can be something very considerable and sometimes immense: what we call genius is part of the development of the human range of being and its achievements, especially in things of the mind and will, can carry us
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halfway to the divine. Even what the mind and will can do with the body in the field proper to the body and its life, in the way of physical achievement, bodily endurance, feats of prowess of all kinds, a lasting activity refusing fatigue or collapse and continuing beyond what seems at first to be possible, courage and refusal to succumb under an endless and murderous physical suffering, these and other victories of many kinds sometimes approaching or reaching the miraculous are seen in the human field and must be reckoned as a part of our concept of a total perfection. The unflinching and persistent reply that can be made by the body as well as the mind of man and by his life-energy to what ever call can be imposed on it in the most difficult and discouraging circumstances by the necessities of war and travel and adventure is of the same kind and their endurance can reach astounding proportions and even the inconscient in the body seems to be able to return a surprising response.
The body, we have said, is a creation of the Inconscient and itself inconscient or at least subconscient in parts of its self and much of its hidden action; but what we call the Inconscient is an appearance, a dwelling place, an instrument of a secret Consciousness or a Superconscient which has created the miracle we call the universe. Matter is the field and the creation of the Inconscient and the perfection of the operations of inconscient Matter, their perfect adaptation of means to an aim and end, the wonders they perform and the marvels of beauty they create, testify, in spite of all the ignorant denial we can oppose, to the presence and power of consciousness of this Superconscience in every part and movement of the material universe. It is there in the body, has made it and its emergence in our consciousness is the secret aim of evolution and the key to the mystery of our existence.
In the use of such activities as sports and physical exercises for the education of the individual in childhood and first youth, which should mean the bringing out of his actual and latent possibilities to their fullest development, the means and methods we must use are limited by the nature of the body and its aim must be such relative human perfection of the body's powers, and capacities and those of the powers of mind, will, character, action of which it is at once the residence and the instrument so far as these methods can help to develop them. I have written sufficiently about the mental and moral parts of perfection to which these pursuits can contribute and this I need not repeat here. For
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the body itself the perfections that can be developed by these means are those of its natural qualities and capacities and, secondly, the training of its general fitness, as an instrument for all the activities which may be demanded from it by the mind and the will, by the life-energy or by the dynamic perceptions, impulses and instincts of our subtle physical being which is an unrecognized but very important element and agent in our nature. Health and strength are the first conditions for the natural perfection of the body, not only muscular strength and the solid strength of the limbs and physical stamina, but the finer, alert and plastic and adaptable force which our nervous and subtle physical parts can put into the activities of the frame. There is also the still more dynamic force which a call upon the life-energies can bring into the body and . stir it to greater activities, even feats of the most extraordinary character of which in its normal state it would not be capable. There is also the strength which the mind and will by their demands and stimulus and by their secret powers which we use or by which we are used with out knowing clearly the source of their action can impart to the body or impose upon it as masters and inspirers. Among the natural qualities and powers of the body which can be thus awakened, stimulated and trained to a normal activity we must reckon dexterity and stability in all kinds of physical action such as swiftness in the race, dexterity in com bat, skill and endurance of the mountaineer, the constant and often extraordinary response to all that can be demanded from the body of the soldier, sailor, traveller or explorer to which I have already made reference or in adventure of all kinds and all the wide range of physical attainment to which man has accustomed himself or to which he is exceptionally pushed by his own will or .by the compulsion of circum stance. It is a general fitness of the body for all that can be asked from it which is the common formula of all this action, a fitness attained by a few or by many, that could be generalized by an extended and many sided physical education and discipline. Some of these activities can be included under the name of sports; there are others for which sport and physical exercises can be an effective preparation. In some of them a training for common action, combined movement, discipline are need ed and for that our physical exercises can make one ready; in others a developed individual, will, skill of mind and quick perception, force fullness of life-energy and subtle physical impulsion are more prominently needed and may even be the one sufficient trainer. All must be
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included in our conception of the natural powers of the body and its capacity and instrumental fitness in the service of the human mind and will and therefore in our concept of the total perfection of the body.
There are two conditions for this perfection, an awakening in as great an entirety as possible of the body consciousness and an education, an evocation of its potentialities, also as entire and fully developed and, it may be, as many-sided as possible. The form or body is, no doubt, in its origin a creation of the Inconscient and limited by it on all sides, but still of the Inconscient developing the secret conscious ness concealed within it and growing in light of knowledge, power and Ananda. We have to take it at the point it has reached in its human evolution in these things, make as full a use of them as may be and, as much as we can, further this evolution to as high a degree as is permitted by the force of the individual temperament and nature. In all forms in the world there is a force at work, unconsciously active or oppressed by inertia in its lower formulations, but in the human being conscious from the first, with its potentialities partly awake, partly asleep or latent: what is awake in it we have to make fully conscious; what is asleep we have to arouse and set to its work; what is latent we have to evoke and educate. Here there are two aspects of the body consciousness, one which seems to be a kind of automatism carrying on its work in the physical plane without any intervention of the mind and in parts even beyond any possibility of direct observation by the mind or, if conscious or observable, still proceeding or capable of continuing, when once started, by an apparently mechanical action not needing direction by the mind and continuing so long as the mind does not intervene.
There are other movements taught and trained by the mind which can yet go on operating automatically but faultlessly even when not attended to by the thought or will; there are others which can operate in sleep and produce results of value to the waking intelligence. But more important is what may be described as a trained and developed automatism, a perfected skill and capacity of eye and ear and the hands and all the members prompt to respond to any call made" on them, a developed spontaneous operation as an instrument, a complete fitness for any demand that the mind and life-energy can make upon it. This is ordinarily the best we can achieve at the lower end, when we start from that end and limit ourselves to the means and methods which are proper to it. For more we have to turn to the mind and life-energy themselves or
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to the energy of the spirit and to what they can do for a greater perfection of the body. The most we can do in the physical field by physical means is necessarily insecure as well as bound by limits; even what seems a perfect health and strength of the body is precarious and can be broken down at any moment by fluctuations from within or by a strong attack or shock from outside: only by the breaking of our limitations can a higher and more enduring perfection come. One direction in which our consciousness must grow is an increasing hold from within or from above on the body and its powers and its more conscious response to the higher parts of our being. The mind pre-eminently is man; he is a mental being and his human perfection grows the more he fulfils the description of the Upanishad, a mental being, Purusha, leader of the life and the body. If the mind can take up and control the instincts and automatisms of the life-energy and the subtle physical conscious ness and the body, if it can enter into them, consciously use and, as we may say, fully mentalise their instinctive or spontaneous action, the perfection of these energies, their action too becomes more conscious and more aware of itself and more perfect. But it is necessary for the mind too to grow in perfection and this it can do best when it depends less on the fallible intellect of physical mind, when it is not limited even by the more orderly and accurate working of the reason and can grow in intuition and acquire a wider, deeper and closer seeing and the more luminous drive of energy of a higher intuitive will. Even within the limits of its present evolution it is difficult to measure the degree to which the mind is able to extend its control or its use of the body's powers and capacities and when the mind rises to higher powers still and pushes back its human boundaries, it becomes impossible to fix any limits: even, in certain realisations, an intervention by the will in the automatic working of the bodily organs seems to become possible. Wherever limitations recede and in proportion as they recede, the body becomes a more plastic and responsive and in that measure a more fit and perfect instrument of the action of the spirit. In all effective and expressive activities here in the material world the cooperation of the two ends of our being is indispensable. If the body is unable whether by fatigue or by natural incapacity or any other cause to second the thought or will or is in any way irresponsive or insufficiently responsive, to that extent the action fails or falls short or becomes in some degree unsatisfying or incomplete. In what seems to be an exploit of the spirit so purely mental
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as the outpouring of poetic inspiration, there must be a responsive vibration of the brain and its openness as a channel for the power of the thought and vision and the light of the word that is making or breaking its way through or seeking for its perfect expression. If the brain is fatigued or dulled by any clog, either the inspiration cannot come and nothing is written or it fails and something inferior is all that can come out; or else a lower inspiration takes the place of the more luminous formulation that was striving to shape itself or the brain finds it more easy to lend itself to a less radiant stimulus or else it labours and constructs or responds to poetic artifice. Even in the most purely mental activities the fitness, readiness or perfect training of the bodily instrument is a condition indispensable. That readiness, that response too is part of the total perfection of the body.
The essential purpose and sign of the growing evolution here is the emergence of consciousness in an apparently inconscient universe, the growth of the consciousness and with it growth of the light and power of the being; the development of the form and its functioning or its fit ness to survive, although indispensable, is not the whole meaning or the central motive. The greater and greater awakening of consciousness and its climb to a higher and higher level and a wider extent of its vision and action is the condition of our progress towards that supreme and total perfection which is the aim of our existence. It is the condition also of the total perfection of the body. There are higher levels of the mind than any we now conceive and to these we must one day reach and rise beyond them to the heights of a greater, a spiritual existence. As we rise we have to open to them our lower members and fill these with those superior and supreme dynamisms of light and power; the body we have to make a more and more and even entirely conscious frame and instrument, a conscious sign and seal and power of the spirit. As it grows in this perfection, the force and extent of its dynamic action and its response and service to the spirit must increase, the control of the spirit over it also must grow and the plasticity of its functioning both in its developed and acquired parts of power and in its automatic responses down to those that are now purely organic and seem to be the movements of a mechanic inconscience. This cannot happen without a veritable transformation and a transformation of the mind and life and very body is indeed the change to which our evolution is secretly moving and without this transformation the entire fullness
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of a divine life on earth cannot emerge. In this transformation the body itself can become an agent and a partner. It might indeed be possible for the spirit to achieve a considerable manifestation with only a passive and imperfectly conscious body as its last or bottommost means of material functioning, but this could not be anything perfect or complete. A fully conscious body might even discover and work out the right material method and process of a material transformation. For this, no doubt, the spirit's supreme light and power and creative joy must have manifested on the summit of the individual consciousness and sent down their fiat into the body, but still the body may take in the working out its spontaneous part of self-discovery and achievement. It would be thus a participator and agent in its own transformation and the integral transformation of the whole being; this too would be a part and a sign and evidence of the total perfection of the body.
If the emergence and growth of consciousness is the central motive of the evolution and the key to its secret purpose, then by the very nature of that evolution this growth must involve not only a wider and wider extent of its capacities but also an ascent to a' higher and higher level till it reaches the highest possible. For it starts from a nethermost level of involution in the Inconscience which we see at work in Matter creating the material universe; it proceeds by an Ignorance which is yet ever developing knowledge and reaching out to an ever greater light and ever greater organisation and efficacy of the will and harmonisation of all its own inherent and emerging powers; it must at last reach a point where it develops or acquires the complete fullness of its capacity and that must be a state or action in which there is no longer an ignorance seeking for knowledge but Knowledge self-possessed, inherent in the being, master of its own truths and working them out with a natural vision and force that is not afflicted by limitation or error. Or if there is a limitation, it must be a self-imposed veil behind which it would keep truth back for a manifestation in Time but draw it out at will and without any need of search or acquisition in the order of a right perception of things or in the just succession of that which has to be manifested in obedience to the call of Time. This would mean an entry or approach into what might be called a truth-consciousness self existent in which the being would be aware of its own realities and would have the inherent power to manifest them in a Time-creation in which all would be Truth following out its own unerring steps and
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combining its own harmonies; every thought and will and feeling and act would be spontaneously right, inspired or intuitive, moving by the light of Truth and therefore perfect. All would express inherent realities of the spirit; some fullness of the power of the spirit would be there. One would have overpassed the present limitations of mind: mind would become a seeing of the light of Truth, will a force and power of the Truth, Life a progressive fulfilment of the Truth, the body itself a conscious vessel of the Truth and part of the means of its self-effectuation and a form of its self-aware existence. It would be at least some initiation of this Truth-Consciousness, some first figure and action of it that must be reached and enter into a first operation if there is to be a divine life or any full manifestation of a spiritualised consciousness in the world of Matter. Or, at the very least, such a Truth Consciousness must be in communication with our own mind and life and body, descend into touch with it, control its seeing and action, impel its motives, take hold of its forces and shape their direction and purpose. All touched by it might not be able to embody it fully, but each would give some form to it according to his spiritual temperament, inner capacity, the line of his evolution in Nature: he would reach securely the perfection of which he was immediately capable and he would be on the road to the full possession of the truth of the Spirit and of the truth of Nature.
In the workings of such a Truth-Consciousness there would be a certain conscious seeing and willing automatism of the steps of its truth which would replace the infallible automatism of the inconscient or seemingly inconscient Force that has brought out of an apparent Void the miracle of an ordered universe and this could create a new order of the manifestation of the being in which a perfect perfection would become possible, even a supreme and total perfection would appear in the vistas of an ultimate possibility. If we could draw down its power into the material world, our age long dreams of human perfectibility, individual perfection, the perfectibility of the race, of society, inner mastery over self and a complete mastery," governance and utilization of the forces of Nature could see at long last a prospect of total achievement. This complete human self-fulfilment might well pass beyond limitations and be transformed into the character of a divine life. Matter after taking into itself and manifesting the power of life and the light of mind would draw down into it the superior or supreme
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power and light of the spirit and in an earthly body shed its parts of inconscience and become a perfectly conscious frame of the spirit. A secure completeness and stability of the health and strength of its physical tenement could be maintained by the will and force of this inhabitant; all the natural capacities of the physical frame, all powers of the physical consciousness would reach their utmost extension and be there at command and sure of their flawless action. As an instrument the body would acquire a fullness of capacity, a totality of fitness for all use's which the inhabitant would demand of it far beyond anything now possible. Even it could become a revealing vessel of a supreme beauty and bliss, — casting the beauty of the light of the spirit suffusing and radiating from it as a lamp reflects and diffuses the luminosity of its indwelling flame, carrying in itself the beatitude of the spirit, its joy of the seeing mind, its joy of life and spiritual happiness, the joy of Matter released into a spiritual consciousness and thrilled with a constant ecstasy. This would be the total perfection of the spiritualized body.
All this might not come all at once, though such a sudden illumination might be possible if a divine Power and Light and Ananda could take their stand on the summit of our being and send down their force into the mind and life and body illumining and remoulding the cells, awaking consciousness in all the frame. But the way would be open and the consummation of all that is possible in the individual could progressively take place. The physical also would have its share in that consummation of the whole.
There would always remain vistas beyond as the infinite Spirit took up towards higher heights and larger breadths the evolving Nature, in the movement of the liberated being towards the possession of the supreme Reality, the supreme existence, consciousness, beatitude. But of this it would be premature to speak: what has been written is per haps as much as the human mind as it is now constituted can venture to look forward to and the enlightened thought understand in some measure. These consequences of the Truth-Consciousness descending and laying its hold upon Matter would be a sufficient justification of the evolutionary labour. In this upward all-uplifting sweep of the Spirit there could be a simultaneous or consecutive downward step of the triumph of a spiritualized Nature all-including, all-transmuting and in it there could occur a glorifying change of Matter and the physical
consciousness and physical form and functioning of which we could speak as not only the total but the supreme perfection of the body.
Sri Aurobindo
1949
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